


Enkindle

by The Jingo (The_King_in_White)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Magic, F/M, Politics, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_King_in_White/pseuds/The%20Jingo
Summary: Harry Potter fails to disarm Draco Malfoy when escaping Malfoy Manor. Thus Death chooses a different master. And light shines through him...





	1. Through the Veil

**Author's Note:**

> "It answered to somebody else. When he killed Snape, he thought the wand would become his. But the thing is, the wand never belonged to Snape. It was Draco who disarmed Dumbledore that night in the Astronomy Tower. From that moment on, the wand answered to him."- Harry Potter

The first time Draco Malfoy touched one of the Deathly Hollows was a warm spring evening, marked by the gentle brush of the wind against his face and the creak of oaks.

Potter had crept from the castle, stealthily avoiding his friends and concerned teachers as he went to answer the gauntlet thrown down by the Dark Lord. Just so that he could give in to the Dark Lord's demand that the Boy-Who-Lived turn himself over to the monster who had murdered his parents.

But Harry did not escape Draco's eye.

The blond teenager was panting and shaking as he leaned against a pine at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The Slytherin had fled with his tail between his legs and a rising grief in his throat at the way Crabbe had died – screaming and immolated by wild Fiendfyre.

Draco ran towards the camp where he knew his parents - the only people in the world who loved him - would be. Stopping in the No Man's Land between the last holdout against the Dark Lord's rule and the morbid court the dark wizard was holding in the forest, Draco finally breathed a truth that had been building in his lungs for two years.

"I don't want to serve the Dark Lord."

And the admission was breaking, because no matter how hard he tried he couldn't conceive of a way to win. There was no way to keep himself and his family alive and well. They would have to suffer the abuse of a monster for the rest of their miserable tortured lives.

Running a hand through his blond locks, Draco turned the situation over and over in his mind. A tormented frown grew on his face as every plan half-hearted plan he thought up in his mind went wrong.

Victory was impossible.

It was Potter that drew him from his thoughts, the other boy walking right past the Malfoy heir in a daze. The dark-haired teen was so drawn into his own world that he never noticed his longtime rival; even as Draco gaped at him like a fish.

Serenely, Harry trekked into the darkness of the wood, vanishing into the shadows.

Draco didn't know what exactly it was that compelled him to close his mouth and trail after the other boy. It was some inexplicable feeling that nagged into his brain with a taste like destiny, demanding Draco pick up his feet and follow.

So did Malfoy see the dead rise again as Potter turned a ring over in his palm three times, whispering names under his breath to summon the specters of his parents, his godfather, and his mentor. The instinct that hounded him to follow Harry froze him in his tracks – discovery was not why he was there.

The low murmur of the conversation between the living and the dead was impossible to understand from his distance, and Draco was not inclined to move any closer. He simply watched, shivering in fear and awe at the conjured departed.

Minutes passed, and with a final nod the ghosts vanished, and Potter turned on his heel to continue on his way. The ring tumbled from Harry's hands to land on the carpet of dead plant matter, and the Boy-Who-Lived wandered down a slope and out of sight.

After a long moment, Draco mustered the courage to step forward to where the other boy had stood and kneel, searching frantically amid the detritus for what had been left. Pale fingers hooked on a cold twist of metal, and the Slytherin pulled forth a plain gold band. Set in the ring was a single black stone, carved with what he had grown up being told was the sign of the Dark Lord Grindelwald.

His pale features went white. What on earth was someone like _Potter_ doing with something like _that_?

Then he turned the ring over in his hand thrice, that same urge that drove him to follow Potter driving him to use what he had in his possession. It was desperation that he breathed at the end, not even knowing until that instant what he'd been needing.

" _Albus Dumbledore._ "

There was a pause in the world, for it seemed that everything had gone deathly still.

Then the Headmaster came.

"Draco." Dumbledore sighed softly, looking down his crooked nose at his wayward pupil with a piercing blue gaze.

Silver eyes stared back silently pleading before the boy could swallow past the lump in his throat and give a throaty croak. "Help me."

An inscrutable look crossed Dumbledore's face, before the old man smiled. "You do not _need_ my help Draco."

The spectre reached out, setting an insubstantial thumb against Malfoy's forehead where it burned like an icy brand. "You already have all the answers. Look back to the last time we met, and you will remember at the end of my life that it was my mercy that mattered, not yours."

Draco's lips trembled, fighting against the urge to bawl.

"It is our choices who show who we are. What sort of man are you going to become?" The twinkle that had gleamed in the old sorcerer's eyes in life returned even as the ghost faded. "Do not ask for my forgiveness, it has always been given to you. Good luck and farewell, Draco Malfoy."

"I- sir-please!" Draco choked, unable to string together a coherent thought on the matter before the old man was gone, vanished back into the ether. Staring at where his former Headmaster had been in thought, Draco lost himself until something crashed in the trees.

Cursing, the Malfoy heir dove off to the side. He managed to hide in a crop of shrubbery, peering out as the Hogwarts Gameskeeper strode back up the ridge, blubbering and cradling Potter's limp form in his arms.

Draco went white, watching in horror as a triumphant Voldemort followed on the half-giant's heels, throwing out caustic comments to the rehearsed laughter of his servants.

The blond watched as the procession moved on by, staying concealed even at the sight of his distraught mother. It was only after the sounds of the group faded away, that the youngest Malfoy stood, peering after them in indecision.

"What sort of man?" he wondered softly, a trickle of conviction warring with fear in his eyes.

Draco slid the ring onto his finger.

* * *

The second time Draco touched one of the Deathly Hollows was a morning of spellfire and horror and majesty. When Potter rose from the dead, Draco forgot to breath. And he knew that so did everyone else.

The Boy-Who-Lived seemed undefeatable when facing down the Dark Lord's wand, and by the way the Dark Lord's eyes widened comically with fear, Draco would have said the monster felt it too.

So much of what Harry said that day burned. It burnt and curled around inside him warm and heady with a feeling that he couldn't give sound to with his tongue.

Hope.

" _Neither can live while the other survives..."_

" _Dumbledore is dead!"_

" _He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before you did, arranged the whole thing with the man that you thought was your servant."_

" _The Elder Wand recognized a new Master before Dumbledore died, someone who had never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he'd done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance..."_

There was something building in Draco's chest, a foreboding coldness that urged him to run and to step back into the shadows and hide among dark robes.

_The True Master of the Elder Wand is Draco Malfoy._

Icy fear rose in his chest as Potter tracked a green stare unerringly at his former schoolmate rival with a look full of meaning, and Draco knew. He knew even before the mingled shouts of ' _Expelliarmus!'_ and ' _Avada Kadavra!'_. He knew it before red and green mingled. And he knew it even before the red began to fold back under the pressure.

Harry Potter was going to die. The boy himself knew it. And Draco knew it just as surely as Potter did.

That gaze was something that he didn't want to own up to, a charge that made him shake and choke and want to cry. Because when Potter had _looked_ at him, it was all there in that instant.

Passing the torch.

Then red collapsed with a bang, and emerald light flashed.

Silence hung as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-And-Died-To-Live-Again, died for the very last time. It was a frozen tableau, as if fragile marble had crystallized everything.

Tom Riddle laughed. He laughed and howled jubilantly with all the mad humour of a monster that had won at last; swallowing the light of the sun.

People screamed, some dashing forward with spells in a last-ditch effort to avenge their fallen hero. Others finally broke and fled screeching. It made no difference to the Dark Lord, who giggled as he effortlessly parried dozens of spells and broke the last resistance to his rule one kill at a time.

Redhaired Weasleys died by the droves it seemed to Draco as he dodged through the melee, listening to the whisper in his ears of _hurry hurry hurry._

Old Man Weasley and his dumpy wife tumbled to the flagstones like broken marionettes. The second twin Weasley joined his brother in death. Werewolf Weasley with all his scars went down in a red ruin. Dragon Weasley with his burly arms light up in malevolent flames. Even Poncy Weasley with his prim and proper bearing was blown to bits. Weaselette died screaming under the Cruciatus as foam bubbled from her mouth and she bit though her tongue, choking on her blood.

Then finally it was only Ron, tears pouring down his freckled face as he desperately tried to kill a wizard decades his senior.

Draco bent and lifted a shimmering cloak from the ground with a morbid sense of rightness, as if things were finally clicking when he wrapped the cloth around his shoulders.

Then he stood, coming face to face with Granger.

Rage and disgust burned in the mudblood's eyes and twitched in the fierce frown that settled on her brow. Granger's hands curled into fists with an aching intent to drive into his face; to reward him for the desecration that he was visiting upon her best friend's body. And he flinched back, remembering all too well the _last_ time her face had worn that particular expression.

Then he was shoved forward by a gloved hand, toppling over onto Granger and going down with her in a tangled pile of limbs. Hissing as her elbow dug into his ribs and curling away automatically, Draco cast his gaze back up to see who had thrown him down.

A flash of green, and Lucius Malfoy crumpled. Draco's father was deathly still as he collapsed, tangled blond mane settling over features that had grown gaunt in Azkaban. But Draco didn't need to see his father's glazed eyes to know there was no rise in the Malfoy Patriarch's chest.

Dead.

Fear began to pass into fury as Draco turned a burning look at the Dark Lord, hate finally winning out over terror to send a venomous glare.

Voldemort's slit nostrils flared as a pale eyebrow twitched at yet another unfaithful follower. Lucius Malfoy, the once proud and strong sorcerer was dead. All because his love for his offspring would not permit him to allow the Dark Lord to kill Draco outright.

" _I can attend to Draco Malfoy."_ The Dark Lord had declared to the world.

Burning like ice around his ring finger, the Resurrection Stone seemed to chill him. Every beat of Draco's heart was spreading the freeze through him, and Draco stood. A feeling of weight settled on his shoulders, not _heavy_ but rather comfortable with a whisper of confidence.

Draco's hawthorn wand dropped into his hand from a rumpled sleeve.

Tom Riddle snorted. "The coward son of a coward wants to die on his feet like a man?" The mocking tone turned cruel as the Dark Lord idly twirled the Deathstick between his fingers. "Only a fool thinks he can live standing against Lord Voldemort! Drop your wand Draco,, and I will make your death less painless than you deserve for abandoning your rightful Lord."

Words were wind, whistling without meaning past the young Malfoy's ears. There was no sound but the roar of blood in his ears and a slow building whispering. Cold, alien determination was in him. Fear drowning beneath certainty that _everyone dies_.

Hermione's incredulous look dug between his shoulders as Draco's wand arm rose and he murmured with the chill of the grave. "Avada Kedavra."

Green light rocketed forth, shattering a hastily summoned piece of rubble. Through the dust he could barely glimpse the frightful smirk of triumph and amusement as Voldemort wordlessly waved the Elder Wand. Snakes began to rise from the cracks in the flagstones of Hogwarts with an unholy hissing.

The hissing cut off as fire lashed out, burning the serpents into a crisp.

Draco threw a surprised look over his shoulder as Granger stepped up beside him, stance radiating aggression.

"It's not for you." she said coldly as they both sent Reductor curses at the Dark Lord.

Voldemort side-stepped with an indolent sneer – as if their pitiful attempts weren't even able to move him to waste the time to block.

A Cruciatus swept over as the pair ducked and responded with lances of fire.

Voldemort blocked a volley of spells with a conjured silver shield that gave off a chilling gong with every strike.

The pair found themselves dodging more earnestly as Tom's amusement ran out and the Dark Lord began to respond solely with killing curses.

It was lucky chance that sent an _Avada Kedavra_ the Draco didn't see until the last moment. Malfoy responded with a desperate shield charm, knowing the Unforgiveable was unblockable but unwilling to simply do nothing.

Emerald splashed across the magical surface, dissipating with a crackle. And all three stared. Hermione with pure shock. Draco with unadulterated relief.

For the first time since the duel began, Voldemort showed _fear_.

A slow, vicious smile broke over Draco's face. Slashing his wand with a brutal twist, the Malfoy Heir shot a pulsing red _Cruciatus_ at his former master.

Hermione drew back, caught between disapproval and glee as the blonde shifted from defensive and distracting hexes to Unforgivables. Dark magic was foul in the muggleborn's opinion, nut that didn't stop her from watching with a hunger for vengeance.

Tom Riddle retreated and dodged shafts of green lightning, unable to muster a proper defence with a wand that had betrayed him.

Crimson orbs flared with impotent fury as the Dark Lord ducked another killing curse. Skeletal fingers tightened with a creak around the length of Elder wood in his hand, and Lord Voldemort shrieked "You're a fool, Draco Malfoy! No one can defeat Lord Voldemort!" Swinging the Elder Wand about, the Dark Lord roared _"Avada Kadavra!"_

Green met green in a fury of sparks, emerald flames pouring out as two killing curses slammed together. The world hung in a breath, and exhaled as one curse broke beneath the other, with the victory rushing forward in a howl of wind to strike the defeated down.

Everything was silent as Tom Riddle's bloody gaze rolled up and the Dark Lord's body fell to the flagstones spread-eagled.

The crunch of gravel beneath Draco's heels was the only sound in the tense stilness as the blonde crossed the courtyard to stare down at the body.

Pale fingers curled around a piece of Elder wood, and amidst the sudden shout of relief that echoed from the few survivors, Draco Malfoy united the Deathly Hollows.

* * *

Three years later Draco kicked the silk sheets off his body in a fit of pique as another echoing bang rocked Malfoy Manor. Sighing at the noise, the last Malfoy quickly discerned from the pounding in his temples and the burning in his eyes that he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night either.

Rising with a curse, Draco clicked his fingers and summoned the last of the old Malfoy house elves.

Tribbly bowed low before her master, peering at Draco with bulbous green eyes as she croaked "Will master be having coffee tonight, sir?"

Pressing a hand to his aching forehead, the Malfoy pinned the elf with a glare. "Yes Tribbly. Now get to it."

Tribbly swept low again, muttering under her breath "Of course, Master Malfoy. Tribbly is a good elf, unlike bad Dobby. Oh, the shame!"

Ignoring the decrepit servant as she began to wail, Draco pulled on a house coat. Eventually the elf that had birthed Dobby popped away. More the pity, Draco rolled his eyes as he strolled from his room. For a house elf, Dobby hadn't been quite _right_ in the head – but at least Dobby hadn't been senile and frail.

As he descended the stairs in a rush to the basement, the Malfoy paused only long enough to gulp down the steaming cup of bitter black coffee Tribbly brought back. Dismissing the house elf after pushing the porcelain mug back into Tribbly's gnarled hands, Draco blinked bloodshot eyes and threw open the door to the dungeon.

Back before the Wizard's Council had given way to the Ministry of Magic, the Malfoy family had been bonafide landowning feudal nobility. The Norman wizards had ridden in as part of William the Conqueror's army, establishing themselves as the undisputed authority in Wiltshire. As such, they had created and passed down a traditional dungeon with all the trappings and torture devices necessary to make a sadist orgasm.

"Granger!" Draco shouted, voice echoing in the vast dark space. "What the _hell_ are you doing?" A wordless _tempus_ charm gave more fuel to the fire as his tirade continued on. "It's three in the bloody morning! Can't you take just one God damn day off-" Cutting off abruptly as a hand slapped over his mouth, the Lord of the Manor settled for a burning glare.

Hermione's sallow drawn face peered back unimpressed. Pulling her hand away with a raised eyebrow, the bushy haired woman wiped her palm over her robes and turned away. "I'm doing what I'm _always_ doing, Malfoy. Just as _you_ should be."

Making a final scowl at Granger's back, Draco dropped it as a lost cause and followed her. Set in the middle of the room on a broad oak table was an apparatus of wire and steel twisted into the shape of a hellish gauntlet. Stomping into place before it, the blond tore his wand from his pocket.

As always, when Draco first settled his fingers about the length of elder wood there was a hum of power that settled through his senses.

Ignoring the now familiar feeling, Draco pushed his hand – wand and all, into the gauntlet and settled. Immediately the ring set with the Resurrection stone began to burn cold. Weight settled over him as Hermione sniffed and tied Potter's old invisibility cloak over his shoulders.

Frowning, Draco waited until the mudblood had stalked around the table and taken up a position across from him.

Hermione waved her own wand in front of her eyes, which took on a glittering sheen, and then nodded to her partner. Responding with a silent _Lumos,_ the Malfoy waited impatiently as Granger muttered to herself and began to jot down notes with a muggle pen.

Their strange partnership had begun two years prior when Hermione had appeared on Draco's doorstep in a storm, soaked wet and watching him with wild eyes.

The blond that had by sheer dumb luck managed to defeat the Dark Lord had allowed his childhood enemy to take residence in his home with the promise of a shared goal. They would work to harness the power of the Deathly Hollows and force Death to give back those whom they'd loved and lost – one way or another.

Nodding distractedly at Draco, Hermione waved the rich pureblood off once she'd gathered enough data on the magical output that the Master of Death had given off.

More than pleased to remove his hand from the metal glove, Draco passed the Elder Wand from one hand to the other and shook his fingers out. Potter's cloak was quickly set aside on the table – Draco hated wearing it. Doing so always made him feel like a filthy grave robber.

Dropping the Deathstick back into his robes, the blonde turned to leave and hopefully crawl into a dark corner to sleep for a week. Out of the corner of a silver-grey eye, Draco spied Granger.

The mudblood stared at the parchment in front of her with a white face of shock and began frantically digging through her expandable file folder that she carried _everywhere_. "Stupid, stupid!" the brunette muttered under her breath, mania overtaking her gaze and hands shaking as she drew out a single page.

The paper was old and yellow and probably not legally in Granger's possession, Draco decided as he strode around the table and peered over the woman's shoulder. The series of numbers on the page stamped with the Department of Mysteries insignia was baffling to Draco, and he was quite willing to abandon her to overanalyze whatever hidden discovery the Ministry had been covering up _this_ time.

Stepping back with a scowl, Draco turned to leave only to be pulled back as Granger threw out a hand and seized a fistful of his robes. The bushy haired witch pulled the irritated blond back, laughing in his face like a madwoman. "How did I not _see_ it before? It's so fucking simple!"

Quickly releasing her partner, Hermione drew out a third piece of parchment and began to scribble on it, taking the two sets of numbers she had – one obtained from the Ministry, and one from her experiments on him, and imputing them into a formula.

Taking the results, Hermione dried the ink with a quick wave of wandless, silent magic and flipped the parchment over to begin drawing on the back. Draco watched with a bored look, one eyebrow climbing higher and higher as she drew out two rudimentary graphs with the harsh strokes that she'd developed as her mind began to break down over the years after the deaths of Potter and Weasley.

"So fucking simple!" she cried as she finished and shoved the parchment in his face.

Glaring at the two identical scribbles, he shoved the paper back and her and frowned.

Hermione scowled before shaking her head. "Don't you see, they're the _same_!"

"Oh well spotted, Granger." He snarked.

Huffing as she threw up her hands, Hermione glowered up at her partner with blazing brown orbs. "Honestly, Malfoy! Did you never study spell creation _at all_? Just what did you think we were doing here? Playing around? We're using the data generated from your use of the Hollows to develop a spell to use the _real_ power hidden in the Hollows! Only we won't have to _because an analogue to do that already exists_!"

The annoyance bled out of Draco as he stared into the brunette's manic eyes.

It began slowly as a tingle in his toes and rising – triumph. Laughter burst out of Draco, maniacal with glee as he seized the woman in an impromptu hug and swung her around. He couldn't wait to see his mother and father again!

A smile lit up Hermione's prematurely aged face and she giggled along with him.

"Well, where is it?" he demanded, voice rolling with anticipation.

"In the Department of Mysteries. It's the Veil _._ "

* * *

Whispers filled the air, a sound at odds with anything that should possibly exist on the living side of the divide. Little moans for release, for forgiveness, for renewal. A breath of spirit, chilling Draco's spine and instinctively raising the blond's hackles. Revulsion and longing mixed as he took in the insubstantial gray streamers the fluttered about.

"Do you hear that?" he bit out, raising an eyebrow at Hermione. She only responded with a fearful look, cringing away from the worn archway with an expression of distaste.

Unspeakables lay crumpled in their seats and across the floor behind the pair, no match for the two who had infiltrated the Ministry under Death's own cloak. Blaring wails echoed in the distance, summoning the Aurors to attend to the breach in defense.

Draco had commanded Tribbly to cause as much of a distraction in the upper levels as the old elf could, ignoring Hermione's hissing protests of slavery as he sent the servant to what could possibly be death. A chilling look had forced the former Elves' Rights activist to subside. Hermione was too afraid of the silent threat of him going alone – because Draco hardly needed her after she'd fulfilled her purpose of providing a way back for them.

She'd quieted with a glare. Hermione was ultimately unwilling to sacrifice the chance to save the lives of her closest friends and all the rest who had died when Voldemort had nearly won – even for the sake of a life.

Malfoy would have been perfectly happy at forcing death to yield up his parents, Hermione wanted to save _everyone_. Hence her refusal to devote her energy to any venue but one that would send them back to when it all began.

Draco subsided when she'd pointed out that they'd both win – Hermione could go running about on her hero's crusade while he had more than enough time to get his family out of the war.

The distant howling alarm cut off, leaving the silent buzz that would only be heard in the Minister's office. Informing Shacklebolt that someone had broken in the Department of Mysteries.

Too much time had been wasted already.

"Come on." Granger hissed, seizing his arm and dragging him towards the gate. Shaking off the distraction of the voices that were all the clearer now that there was no screeching alarm to crowd them, Draco stumbled forward.

Quickly overtaking the somewhat mad muggleborn that was slowly forcing herself forward against fear, Draco grasped the woman's hand in a crushing grip, pulling her into a running leap.

They fell into darkness.

Draco blinked about in the pitch darkness, pulling Hermione's form to his chest as they floated along in an abyss. It began so slowly that he was sure he'd imagined the faint lighting in the distance. Thunder crashed frighteningly close, sending his heart into a panicked spasm before an invisible force hooked below his navel and tore him across the empty void.

Stars exploded into painful existence, flaring sparks of light birthing a stabbing pain in his retinas. Silver glass shimmered, reflecting light back and forth until the glow became too strong and Draco shut his eyes against the agony.

Time passed.

Eventually the warmth on his eyelids abated, and the blonde opened his eyes and cast down to look at the woman crushed to his chest.

A skull grinned back at him, and he screamed, kicking the corpse away.

Draco shouted in pure panic as the skeleton grabbed his thrashing foot, digging bony fingers into his black trousers and pulling itself along up his body and against his sobbing protests.

Curling its claws into his white dress shirt, Death shoved its bony visage up against Draco's face and breathed out with all the rot of a hundred worlds. Tearing Potter's cloak from around his shoulders and fixing it about its own undead form, Death gave a heaving cackle and tore the Resurrection stone from the ring curled about his finger.

Draco went limp with horror, allowing the macabre spectre to easily root about in his pockets and pull the Deathstick out with fleshless hands.

Suddenly Death's face was back in his own, dark sockets peering into him and tearing through his mind. Pain blossomed fierce across his brain, which was only an inkling of what was to come.

"So bargained, Draco Malfoy." Death cackled in a voice old and young, man and woman, before shoving him away to tumble between the stars.

Agony took him, fire burning in every bone, every vein. Merciful heavens, it was worse than the Cruciatus, worse than torture, worse than death.

Draco drew in a blazing breath, cooking his lungs as if he really could breathe flames like his namesake and screamed.

He screamed until the light faded, He screamed until the whispers stopped. And then he screamed until he woke up in his childhood four poster bed screaming bloody murder.

The door flew open, a steely ferocious gaze darting about as Narcissa swept into her only son's room. The blonde woman held out her wand, a dark curse throbbing on the tip. Every fixture burst into light and banished every shadow.

No intruders.

Draco's screaming cut off into a sob, the boy burying his face in his hands.

Softening her severe expression, Narcissa crossed the luxurious dark marble floor and sat on the bed alongside her only child. The blonde woman wrapped her arms around the weeping boy, setting a cheek on the pale locks that were so like her husband's.

"There, there Draco. It's alright."

* * *

Rubbing his eyes at the dawn, Draco covered a gaping yawn before shuffling across his expansive bedroom and into the lavatory.

Twisting the faucets to fill the tub with steaming water, Draco pulled off his pajamas and threw them in a tangled pile for the house elves to clean up on the black marble tile and crawled into the enormous bath.

Nearly every surface in the manor was constructed of marble. It gave the Manor a feel of being akin to being a magnificent palace worthy of royalty.

Or a mausoleum.

Draco shuddered involuntarily. Death was still too recent a memory.

Granger's plan had gone off well considering the nature of what she'd been attempting to accomplish. Shame the girl had to die on the way back – there was nothing she owned to be used to bargain a safe passage with Death. It seemed Potter was on his own, Draco mused as he scrubbed under his arms.

_Potter._

"Oh fuck."

Without Granger around to guide him, there was no guarantee that Potter would win against the Dark Lord when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rose again. Potter had _died_ the last time around – leaving it to Draco to play along with the luckiest godsend in Wizarding History. Even with Dumbledore's meddling, there was a limit to what sheer dumb luck would do.

When Potter lost, the Dark Lord would take pure pleasure in hunting down those who'd abandoned him. The Malfoys would be on the Dark Lord's shit list if Draco could convince his parents to flee. And if he couldn't, what were the options? Kneel and live in fear, or kneel and get killed for one insane reason or another.

Draco couldn't _afford_ to have Potter lose. With Granger dead, that really only left…

Him.

"Damn Gryffindors." He muttered, dunking his head under the flow to rinse out the shampoo.

So what choice did that leave? There was nothing Draco could do besides get Potter's arse moving as soon as possible. The Dark Lord would return at the end of their Fourth Year – hopefully it would be long enough to whip the boy hero into shape.

"Really." He declared as he dried off and began to pull on the robes that had most likely been silently set out by Dobby. "There's not much to do but play nice with Potter on the train." The decision came so calmly and rationally that it would have surprised the blond, if he hadn't known he was holding onto his Occlumency training so tightly his brain ought to leak out of his ears.

"What an excellent choice Draco." Came Lucius' low purr from behind him. Spinning about with his heart pounding, Draco sent his father a shaky smile. "We'll make a Slytherin of you yet."

"Thank you, Father." He replied automatically as he cast about mentally for something to say. Draco wouldn't see his father for nine months, and he needed to get Lucius out from the Dark Lord's shadow as soon as possible.

"Father." Draco began, licking his lips as Lucius paused and stared down at him with a blank expression and bored eyes that Draco had always termed 'the face' as a child. It was an expression that said 'do not waste my time'.

"About the Dark Lord…"

Lucius' gaze sharpened instantly, and he wordlessly gestured for his son to get on with whatever he needed to say.

"I know that you've told me that if the Dark Lord ever returned that we'd serve him again, but…" Draco couldn't prevent the memory of Lord Voldemort's burning red gaze from sending a spasm of terror across his face. "I've heard awful things about him. About how he'd use the _Cruciatus_ curse on a whim. About how he'd kill those who failed him."

"Draco." The tall blond began in a low dangerous tone. "Do you mean to tell me that you're going to go against the Dark Lord, against me? Such foolishness-"

"Yes!" Draco cried, words tumbling out as surprised anger grew in Lucius' face at being _interrupted_ by his own son. "Why should we, the _Malfoys_ , bow and scrape to some self-styled Lord with no House or true name!"

Playing to his father's prejudice and arrogance, Draco threw his arms out in declaration. "Why, with the way he'd gone hiding it, how would anyone even know that he was pureblood at all? I understand he went on and on about being Slytherin's heir – but that doesn't mean that he's not the halfblood son of a muggle and a blood-traitor!"

Inscrutably, Lucius cocked his head at Draco, suppressing his shock underneath a perfected mask.

"And even if his blood was pure. Being tortured and killed for the slightest mistake, is that the future you would've wanted for me?" Draco finished with a whisper, looking up at his father through fair lashes. Making such a speech to his father was a gamble, and one he would've liked to calculate more. But he was bound for Hogwarts in a pair of very short hours.

"Go and see your mother." Lucius finally ordered after a long moment of silence, no hint of emotion disturbing the Malfoy Lord's icy mask.

Knowing his luck was running very short on his father's temper, Draco rushed to obey and left Lucius standing alone in the bathroom.

Lucius spent a very long time tracing eyes over the white spidering lines in the black tile, thinking of what his son had said to him.

* * *

"And remember to write Draco." Narcissa commanded, setting her hands on her son's shoulders and peering into his face.

If she was a woman inclined to public displays of affection like the dreadfully uncouth Weasleys, she'd gladly press sloppy kisses on Draco's pale cheeks. Refined lady that she was, Narcissa settled for a desperate communication of her affection with tearful eyes.

The youngest Malfoy smiled past the grief and awe that constantly seized him every time he beheld either of his parents – alive and whole, and nodded sharply. "Yes, mother." He echoed his own words nearly a decade past. "I'll write you as often as I can."

Only barely satisfied at the promise – letters would never suffice for the nine months that Draco would be away at Hogwarts – Narcissa released her son's shoulders and turned away to face the crowd imperiously, dabbing discreetly at the warm shimmer distorting her vision.

Lucius was even less given to public displays of affection than his wife, and settled for a silent momentary grip on Draco's shoulder. From the cool, considering look in his father's gray orbs, Draco knew that their brief discussion that morning had not gone forgotten.

Releasing his son with a tiny nod, Lucius settled a hand on his son's lower back and gave a slight push to spur Draco into motion. The Lord Malfoy regally offered his wife his arm, and Narcissa wordlessly took it. Both faces wore blank expressions, but neither could entirely conceal their burning pride as they watched their son navigate the press of wizards and witches on the Platform.

It was only when Draco boarded the train that they stopped watching him, and with a quick glance over the crowd, the pair turned on the spot and vanished.

Shoving past a gaggle of second years, Draco lugged his trunk behind him as he began peering into the compartments about him.

Potter had grown into a habit of taking the last compartment at the end of the train in his other life, but Draco was unwilling to assume that the brat did so on his first ride and take off running up and down the train if Potter wasn't in the last compartment.

Better to be slow and methodical. Better to take his time. Better to settle his nerves before facing the music.

Draco managed to get halfway down the train before Crabbe and Goyle materialized at his elbows, cracking their knuckles and glaring with all the intelligence of a pair of trolls at the crowd that packed all along the train. Repressing the urge to roll his eyes, Draco began to cast about for an empty compartment.

At his first eleven, the youngest Malfoy had been absolutely thrilled at having a pair of walking bookends to enforce any desire that came into his heart with mindless muscle. At his second eleven, Draco had a very clear understanding of what Crabbe and Goyle were and were not useful for. And one thing the oafish pair absolutely was not useful for was making a good impression on Potter.

Glancing a familiar face out of the corner of his eye, Draco squeezed past a pair of chattering Hufflepuffs and looked in at Theodore Nott conversing earnestly with Blaise Zabini. The two were dressed tastefully as proper wizards – nothing like those muggle rags Potter would be wearing. The blond mentally scoffed at Potter's fashion choices before tossing a glance over his shoulder at Crabbe.

"In here." He ordered, sliding open the compartment and stepping inside. Smirking at Nott when the dark-haired boy rose a brow, Draco favoured the dark-skinned Zabini with a wink before allowing Goyle to grab his trunk and heft it into the alcove above with the others' luggage.

"Finally showed your face Malfoy?" Nott jeered, beginning the instant jockeying for position that coloured Slytherin interactions.

"Well you know me old chaps." The Malfoy drawled back, pretending to buff his nails on his robes. "It would be exceedingly cruel of me to deprive you of the chance to take in my beautiful visage."

Blaise snorted with repressed laughter while Nott was unable to prevent the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Crabbe and Goyle guffawed on cue, even if the advanced vocabulary had flown right over their heads.

Draco sent one last sneer about the compartment before shrugging and turning to leave. "Stay here. I'm just off to the loo." He ordered, leaving Crabbe and Goyle to munch candy while the Malfoy slid from the group of Slytherins and resumed his search for Potter.

Without the pair of bodyguards hounding his every move the Malfoy quickly moved down the train.

Draco made it to the last car before he was accosted by a pair of grinning Weasleys.

"Why look here Gred." One chirped, elbowing his twin. "What's a cute, ickle firstie doing wandering about on his lonesome."

"Just was wondering that meself." Gred replied, winking at Draco in an exaggerated motion. "Maybe he's lost, eh Forge?"

Draco's immediate instinct was to bite out an insult at Twin Number One and Twin Number Two about their home, or their upbringing, or their family – preferably all three. But Potter was inordinately fond of his pet Weasels, so the Malfoy swallowed his barb and attempted to think of a passably polite reply.

The blonde was still making a valiant effort at not insulting Weasleys when a third red-haired wizard stepped up from behind him and seized his brothers by the ears with a sharp twist. Fred and George swore at Percy as the older boy maneuvered them back into the compartment where Lee Jordan lounged one on of the seats.

"I've got these two Malfoy." Percy sighed as he shoved the twins into the compartment. Blinking at the unexpected generosity of a Weasley – though Percy was going to be the brown-nose prefect – Draco just smirked as the compartment door slid shut, cutting off the twin surprised cries of "Malfoy?"

Draco's pace slowed to a crawl as he slowly approached the rear of the train. Cold sweat broke out on the blond's palms as Draco tried and failed to distract himself by carefully observing the remainder of compartments. What if he screwed up? It wouldn't be the end of the world, but it would be a lot easier and safer to get Potter to get motivated if Draco was acting as his friend – or _Merlin_ , not just _acting_ as a friend, but actually being one.

Then if he did succeed, he had no idea how he would reconcile Potter's interests and his family's interests. Draco loved his father, but that didn't make him unaware of the elder Malfoy's uncompromising personality and instinctive prejudice. Potter's views were about as proletarian as one could get – and there was little Lucius Malfoy hated so much as an uppity plebian with delusions of grandeur.

Plus Potter was Dumbledore's man through and through, and to say Lucius was less than fond of Dumbledore was an understatement.

Still, the easy part would be to get Dumbledore and Potter to shelter his family – the pair were a couple of bleeding hearts unlike anyone that Draco had ever known. The hard part would be getting his father, and to a lesser extent his mother, to agree to take the headmaster's protection.

Far too quickly Draco found himself standing in front of the last pair of compartments. The one to the left of him was full of a gaggle of doltish Hufflepuffs, which left the one to the right for Potter and his favorite Weasley. Draco swallowed dryly, wiping the sweat from his palms off on his robes.

The latch was cool under his fingertips, burnished brass worn ever so slightly at the touch of generations of wizards and witches bound for Hogwarts. It seemed the click was absurdly louder than any of the other sounds of locomotion and the faint hum of the chatter of children. The roll of wheels as the compartment slid open was a heaving screech – in Draco's mind at least.

Weasley's freckles were the first thing to penetrate his mind, hypercharged synapses memorizing detail down to the spots as they shifted and twisted when Ron turned a quizzical blue stare at the intruder.

Red.

Had Weasley's hair always been so fucking red?

Maybe. But it didn't matter.

What mattered was -

Potter.

Shimmering emerald green stared back in a fine featured face. Faint planes revealing the future attractiveness that would come to entrance the opposite sex for Potter. Potter's clothes were far, far too baggy, clinging to bony shoulders and bony knees and Draco wondered how he'd ever ignored the implications of Potter dressing in a ragged size fit for a whale. The Potter's had a good deal of gold – and no proper family would send their child out in public with such hand me downs. Even Weasley's second hand clothes were decently sized for the impoverished boy.

Pink lips were wet by a little pink tongue before forming into a faint "oh".

A pitched "oh" that sent him stuttering as he shoved out a pale hand in greeting – the order was wrong.

"I heard that H- that _Potter_ was on the train." Draco grinned weakly at Potter, mastering his shock. "I guess that's you, is it?"

Draco was still staring as Potter dragged one hand nervously through a messy mop of auburn strands and set the other fine boned hand in Draco's grip, grinning timidly back.

"Yeah, that's me." He said.

Potter had red hair.

 _What_ the fuck?


	2. The Redhead Who Lived

The blond boy shaking his hand was one of the oddest fellows that Harry Potter ever had the chance to meet.

Though to be fair he couldn't help but admit that he hadn't exactly met oodles and oodles of people to compare him to. And really, he couldn't fault the boy for seeming a touch starstruck over the pink scar etched in his forehead; Ron had been the same way when he'd figured out who Harry was, after all.

"Draco Malfoy." He offered, releasing Harry's hand and plopping down in the seat beside him with a grunt.

"Harry Potter." the red-haired wisp of a boy offered back, peering out the window to hide the initial awkwardness of the stranger inviting himself into their compartment before turning back to Ron.

Both had missed the sudden sharpening of the youngest Weasley boy's gaze at the name of Malfoy, but Ron kept silent until Draco slid the compartment door shut. "Malfoy." the redhead greeted neutrally, careful to keep a polite veneer on his face.

"Weasley." Draco returned, settling his hands over his knees to prevent a socially crude nervous tick that he longed to indulge in. For all the Malfoy's calm, his chest was hammering a panicked beat in his chest at the utterly confusing and terrifying circumstance that he found himself in. If Potter was a knockoff Weasley, then what else was changed?

Neither of the two he sat with knew Draco well enough to recognize that he'd passed from his typical paleness to an unhealthy pallor.

Green eyes blinked quizzically. "You too know each other?"

The snort was instinctual as Draco cocked a brow at the Boy-Who-Lived. "Know him? Red hair, blue eyes, and an excess of freckles? _Must_ be a Weasley. Looks just like his father he does."

Being poor, feckless, and generally loutish were not ideal words to describe Weasley with, no matter how accurate. At the start his acquaintance with Potter, he couldn't afford to make the same mistakes as his first life. Draco sighed inwardly in frustration. The Malfoy had no need of Trelawney to predict the future – his 'all seeing eye' detected more than a little mingling with the plebs.

Ron flushed; ducking his head at the statement and not sure if he should be flattered at being compared to his father or offended at the comment on freckles. "Everyone knows the Malfoys." he muttered to Harry, swallowing back a number of unflattering statements he'd heard growing up about the rich purebloods. Even if the family was dark as dark could come, _his_ mother at least taught him to be polite.

"Must be one of those wizarding things." Harry decided before folding his hands in his lap and staring at the bony whiteness of his knuckles.

"I was raised by my muggle aunt." Harry offered to his companions, watching them through his lashes and hoping he hadn't committed some sort of faux pas. Both boys were obviously raised in magic families, and Harry didn't want to appear stupid or do anything to give them a bad opinion of him. The Potter orphan got enough badmouthing from the Dursleys as it was.

Ron just nodded with understanding while Draco's face pinched as if he'd smelt something foul.

"Anything off the trolley dears?" interrupted from the door, a rather genial old witch pushing a cart of sweets along down the train.

Ron peered at the candy with undisguised longing before shoving a hand in his pocket and withdrawing a wrapped sandwich. "No, I'm all set." the redhead reported glumly, peeling back the paper wrap and taking a small bite.

Mortified at the boy's obvious poverty and no stranger to nights locked in a cupboard without food, Harry dug about in his pockets for the handful of galleons that he'd kept on him after his first visit to Diagon Alley.

Draco was well used to frivolously spending wizards' gold, and in the time it took Harry to locate his handful of coins he'd already reached into his cloak for a green felt bag. "We'll take the lot of it." he dismissed, casually tossing the small sack of coins to the elderly witch.

Gaping at the blond, Ron snapped his jaw shut in a hurry when Draco turned a cool gaze on him and repressed the surge of jealousy. The Weasley was just about to snap something about not needing charity when several floating boxes of candy shoved into his arms.

Draco's bag was noticeably lighter when the witch pressed it back into his hands, and the Malfoy heir didn't bother to count what remained before dropping it back into his pocket and sliding the compartment door shut on the trolley witch with a lazy kick.

Tearing into a chocolate frog box, Draco settled a hand around the animated sweet and nibbled on the confection before turning back to the others.

Weasley was already tearing into the candy like a barbarian, stuffing Bertie Bott's Every Flavoured Beans in his gob like he'd never tasted them in his life. Knowing the Weasley family, that was very possible. Draco sneered.

"You didn't have to do that." Harry murmured softly, drawing his attention. "I had it covered." Jiggling the galleons in his hand to prove it, Harry pocketed them before turning to take his own taste of the beans.

"Eugh, boogie flavoured!" Ron retched, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "They really do mean _every_ flavour." Draco snorted with rusty laughter, swallowing the last bite of chocolate frog.

Surreptitiously spitting the peppermint bean in his mouth back out, Harry pushed the box of flavoured beans to the bottom of the confectionery pile and settled on one of the chocolate frogs. He doubted Draco would eat something too gross – he seemed a bit spoiled, he admitted to himself.

A sharp rap on the glass broke the reverie, and Draco rolled his eyes before giving Ron a significant look. The Weasley blinked before raising his leg up to kick the latch open. "What's all this then?"

"Any of you lot seen a toad?" A boy that was vaguely familiar to Draco asked, turning to peek back up the train. The Malfoy didn't recall the trim boy from his first year, but there was something in the line of his jaw...

Blonde brows rose to the Malfoy's slicked back hairline. "Just go find a prefect and get them to cast a summoning spell, Longbottom." He ordered, turning back to the candy in his lap with a thoughtful frown.

Neville blinked. "I hadn't thought of that." the Longbottom heir admitted, pulling on the collar of his jumper in thought. "Thanks Malfoy!" he muttered as he turned to dash back up the train.

Cooing at the ragged rat in his lap, Ron missed the revulsion in Draco's expression as he turned to give a sardonic brow to the other two.

The Malfoy's tailored boot lazily began to push the compartment door back shut – really, did Longbottom not have any manners? - as he mused on the meaning of a not-fat-bottomed Longbottom. Draco's surprise had passed from hysteria into a numb sort of shock.

A hand with nails that were uneven – as if the owner had bitten them down in stress over tests or excitement at a new book - seized the edge of the door and yanked it back open. "Have any of you seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one."

"Malfoy sent him to find a prefect." Harry offered the brunette witch, taking off his glasses to hurriedly polish them and assure himself that _yes_ ; someone could truly get hair so bushy.

"Oh." the brown-haired blur stated blankly, not entirely sure of what to do with herself since her task was complete. She didn't exactly have friends to go back to. "Do you mind if I sit here?" Hermione asked, failing to contain the hope in her voice.

Ron shrugged before chomping down on the last chocolate frog Draco had given him. Setting his wide rimmed spectacles back on his nose, Harry nodded without reserve – he didn't feel up to rejecting possible friends at the moment.

"Oh, get in here and shut the door." the Malfoy heir ordered, sounding somewhat cross. Sniffing at the tone, the muggleborn witch shut the door behind her and primly sunk down beside Ron.

The freckled boy eyed the bushy-haired girl before casting about for a topic of conversation. "So my brothers told me that we have to fight a troll to get sorted!"

Harry choked while Hermione gaped at him with an appalled expression. Draco simply burst out laughing.

"What?" Ron protested, flushing. "It could be true."

"Whatever you say, Weasley." the Malfoy snorted, looking back out the window at the clouds floating by.

"That's ridiculous!" Hermione rolled her eyes before staring at Draco. "I'm Hermione Granger by the way. I was ever so surprised at getting my Hogwarts letter. Weren't you?"

"Draco Malfoy." the blond sneered slightly, looking down his nose at the girl. "And no, I was _not_ surprised. Because I was born and raised in a _magical_ family."

Thinning her lips at the disrespect, Hermione craned right back around to look at Ron, who quickly introduced himself without the barely veiled implications about muggles.

When Harry gave up his name – easily, because he would hardly expect someone not from the magical world to get all starstuck – Hermione's dark eyes grew round and Harry cringed inwardly. "Are you really? I've read about you in so many books!"

"Books aren't going to tell you everything Granger." Draco snarked. It was obvious after meeting the muggleborn that he was the only one that had returned from a future. There had been no recognition in Hermione's eyes.

"Well, of course not." she frowned. "I've studied so many spells over the summer – but we're not allowed to practice them. Why wouldn't we be if we could just learn how to do magic from books?"

"Probably because your lot would run around and give up the secret of magic to muggles otherwise." the Malfoy grunted, ignoring the outraged look on Ron's face as the blond dug in his sleeve and yanked out his wand. Understanding and offense were just dawning on Hermione's features as he twirled his wand.

 _Lumos_ distracted the other three children and averted the possible confrontation.

Harry's emerald eyes were wide behind his glasses as he stared at the first spell he'd seen cast since Hagrid had taken him away from his relatives earlier in the summer. "Wow." He breathed, not noticing the startled blink Draco gave at her obvious awe. Hermione watched the display with similar reverence.

The Malfoy smirked.

"Well what are you waiting for? Get your wand out if you want to learn, Potter." The pair blinked before frantically searching for their wands. Ignoring Hermione as she carefully began mimicking his earlier twirl from memory, the pureblood leaned across and grasped Harry's swishing hand.

Ordering the scarred boy to relax, Draco lead him through the motions several times before permitting him to attempt to cast the spell. Hermione had succeeded on her own, but permitting Harry to get in the habit of relying on Granger for everything would come back to bite them in the collective arses later on.

Light brimmed at the end of a length of holly and phoenix feather, and only then did Draco release the halfblood boy's hand and stow his wand back in his sleeve.

"Thanks." Harry muttered.

Shrugging back casually, Draco took a last look out the window at the dying sunlight before leaping to his feet with a stretch. "Well ladies." the blond drawled, ignoring the way Harry and Ron scowled. "It's about time for me to be getting back to my own luggage and for you to be getting dressed in your robes."

"Bloody git." Ron grunted once the blond boy had left.

* * *

Hogwarts was breathtaking. Ancient spires thrust towards the sky, lit about with rosy orange pinpricks and looming over a lake of black glass the reflected a starry infinity. Harry remembered to dazedly follow Hagrid's instructions and gingerly plop down in one of the bobbing boats that dotted the shoreline.

Hermione quickly mimicked the auburn-haired boy, restraining any such expression of awe in exchange for naked excitement. Bouncing his leg with nervous energy as he dropped in across from the other two first years, Ron grinned up at the castle that had featured time and again in the stories that his older brothers would tell.

Barreling out of the mill of students with a harried expression, Draco shoved past a nervous looking Tracy Davis to throw himself into the last seat beside the youngest Weasley boy. The redhead cursed loudly at the sudden rocking that kicked up a splash to soak the back of his robes.

Draco waved off two rather thuggish looking boys, who blinked stupidly before wandering off to find their own boat. Frowning despite himself, Harry was not sorry to see the pair go. There was something in their manner that reminded him too strongly of his cousin Dudley, and he doubted he could ever be real friends with someone like that.

"Bit in a rush there, Malfoy?" the redhead groused, making a face at the slimy feel of wet robes pressing up against his back. Shrugging disinterestedly, Draco ignored Ron in favour of watching the other first years pile in boats around them with an air of boredom.

"All aboard?" Hagrid called out, the half giant's large size garnering him a boat all to himself. "Right!" Thumping a massive fist into the planks of his boat thrice, Hagrid sent the small fleet lurching forward.

A low hum of voices rose as the children eagerly began discussing what would be waiting for them at the school with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

"So where do you think you'll be sorted?" Hermione questioned the silent group. " _I'm_ hoping for Gryffindor – I heard it's where Professor Dumbledore himself got sorted."

Hunching his shoulders forward in nervousness, Ron sighed. "I'm going for Gryffindor. Or at least I better. Mum'd skin me alive if I ever went anywhere else. I think."

Draco ignored the muggleborn, staring out over the lake with a vaguely worried expression. There was no telling what the Sorting Hat would do with him if it found out the truth about his time travelling escapades.

Occlumency was a possibility, but he didn't particularly enjoy the thought of flying by the seat of his trousers. He was a Malfoy and a Slytherin. It was best to leave the doltish improvisation to foolhardy Gryffindors.

A sharp prod in the blond's side drew him back to the conversation, and Draco scowled. "The Malfoys have been Slytherin for generations."

"I don't know." Harry admitted softly, looking down uncertainly at his clenched hands.

Repressing a sigh, Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. Had Potter always been so oversensitive and uncertain, or was that just a new feature of Firecrotch Potter?

Regardless; he decided with a hint of shame, Harry was still an eleven year old boy. An orphan raised by loutish muggles in complete ignorance of his heritage and birthright. And despite having the same last name, this Harry was obviously different from the Harry-Bloody-Golden-Boy-Potter of Draco's memories.

Reassuring the brat took the last dregs of patience. Draco dipped an idle hand in the dark lake. "Your parents were both Gryffindors, and the Potters have placed there for centuries. You'll be one."

"Really?"

"Really."

* * *

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the shout of the Sorting Hat was ringing – benediction separating them from friends without regard for relations. Hannah Abbot smiled nervously as she stepped around the clapping table and sought a seat at the end.

Draco's hands were sweaty, and the Malfoy wiped them on his robes over and over again ineffectually. There were advantages to being sorted for Slytherin or Gryffindor. Any of the other houses that he could plan around. Whether the approval of his parents or the goodwill of intended friendship with Potter would be the judgment of the Hat – Draco could account for the difficulty either way.

No, the real reason for sweaty palms as Granger was called up to argue with the Sorting Hat to eventually place for the House of Lions was the curling uncertainty in his veins. The boy had a seizing worry that the Hat would perceive his secrets and reveal them. Draco had no desire to serve any but himself – and being interrogated by Dumbledore's twinkling blues or the Ministry's veritaserum would yield neither result.

"Malfoy, Draco." broke into his thoughts, and with his heart in his throat the blond stepped up to face the hat. Shaking fingers reached out to grasp the brim, and Draco scowled at his own nervousness. The trembling in his hand stilled with effort, and with a feeling of stepping off a cliff he sunk into the chair and swung the hat up onto his head.

Tendrils of consciousness slipped straight through his occlumency barriers as if his mental fortress simply did not exist. _"Now what do we have here?"_ rung from between his ears, and Draco sat ramrod straight in anticipation.

 _"Well, well, well, Mr. Malfoy."_ the hat drawled in a rich mental baritone. _"It seems to me that you've gone and misplaced yourself."_ More curious tendrils began rifling through his memories, and the Malfoy frowned with the outrage.

 _"Oh don't be shy young Malfoy."_ the Sorting Hat reassured. _"I've seen a little bit of everything in my time, and I am unable to spill the secrets of those who choose to wear me."_ Then the mental tone turned mischievous _"Or do you prefer to be called by your formal title, young_ Master of Death _?"_

 _"Simply Mr. Malfoy. I am no such thing any longer."_ he snarked out before he could contain the thought. The hat merely laughed long and low in reply, streams of thought retreating away from his memories with careless grace in the mental arts.

_"Now where to put you?"_

Draco's mind stuttered to a halt. The Malfoy heir had come back to change things – to create a world where he actually wanted life more than death. A place where his parents hadn't passed on to the land of the dead. Where Draco himself did not linger on under the shadow of a madman.

(His mind shied away from acknowledging that there were some things that could not be changed. Even if he crossed time and inherited a body unstained by Dark Marks, nothing could take away the memory of hushed corridors filled with the scent of snakes and black magic.)

Begging the hat to toss him to the self righteous House of Lions would certainly make _waves._ A tradition of generations would be shattered. His father would be devastated. His mother would draw endless comparisons with her ill-fated cousin. Dumbledore would have a neverending twinkle in his eyes and an endless stream of 'My boy'. Most importantly, it would get him access to Potter.

The original arrangement Draco had with Granger had divided the work between them. The Malfoy heir would do what it took to keep his parents alive and on the sidelines of the Dark Lord's cause, passing information that the muggleborn that she was too squeaky clean to have access to. It was Granger that was supposed to take Potter under her wing. It was Granger's job to be Potter's friend. To train Potter and keep Potter alive and help Potter win the war.

But Granger was dead.

The Malfoy sunk into a moment of irrational anger, gritting his teeth at the know-it-all _mudblood_ that was right _all the time_ except when it really counted. The one time Draco actually _wanted_ the brunette woman to have been right was the one time Granger managed to fuck things up spectacularly. And now it would be up to the blond to pick up all the slack and make sure everything didn't go to hell in a handbasket _again_.

Warning fingers brushed across his mind, poking at the harsh edges of anger and crevices of despair. The gesture the Sorting Hat gave the Malfoy wasn't given in clear words, but rather a faint impression of calmness and urgency. Draco swallowed thickly, pushing aside the frustration and banishing tension with a slow roll of his shoulders.

Yes, pushing the Hat to sort him into Gryffindor, or even Ravenclaw would help to put Draco in an ideal position to influence Harry Potter without Weasleys or Dumbledore worriedly puttering about. The mere fact that Potter was willing to be Draco's friend opened an entire jar of newts that the Malfoy heir would need to deal with as soon as possible – at the cost of tradition.

Was such a thing worth it?

A wry smirk curled the corners of Draco's lips.

_Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.  
_

* * *

Brilliant green eyes stared at the pale boy sitting painfully straight with a ragged pointed hat humming over blonde locks. With the longest time to get sorted out of any child so far, Draco was quickly becoming fodder for whispered gossip among the older students. Harry felt a touch of annoyance at the thought that _apparently_ no one had anything better to do than gawk and mutter about other people.

"SLYTHERIN!" the Sorting Hat finally bellowed, instantly spurring Malfoy to leap to his feet and yank the worn cap off. Blinking in surprise when the blond set the hat back on the stool with surprising gentleness, the Potter watched Draco stalk off to the far left table.

Taking a seat across from his Dudley-clone goons with all the hauteur swagger of a prince, the blond nodded at Harry before giving a pointed glance back to the front of the Great Hall.

Swinging his gaze back around to the elderly witch reading off the list of First Years' names just in time to see 'Perks, Sally-Anne' get bundled off to Hufflepuff, Harry thinned his lips in thought. Compared to Ron's now obviously wild predictions of troll fighting, simply slipping on a hat for a few moments seemed terribly… normal.

"Potter, Harry".

The low buzz of laughter and conversation cut off into dead silence. Every students' eye drilled into his back as Harry stepped up to the stool and grabbed the Sorting Hat. It was entirely unnerving, and the Potter heir already experienced far too much of _Bless my soul. Harry Potter – What an honour_. To like it.

All the attention was ridiculous. He wasn't anything special. He was just Harry for Pete's sake!

Not some wizard with mysterious superpowers and a need for genuflection.

Sweeping the ragged old thing up onto his tangled fiery strands, Harry dropped down onto the stool. Blinking with surprise as the world vanished beneath a dusty flap of cloth, the boy reached up to push the hat back so he could see. _'Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. Potter?'_ Cut across his mind in deep tones, and he dropped his hand back into his lap in surprise. No, Harry supposed – better to stare at the inside of a hat than the eyes of hundreds of students watching his every move.

' _Who are you?'_ Harry offered cautiously, drawn into a queer sense of touching minds and faint impressions. _'Are you the Sorting Hat?'_ The boy already knew the hat itself could speak – which had been a shock at the time he'd learnt of it, but it was _magic_ Harry supposed. Surely talking in his head wasn't _that_ unusual.

' _Indeed.'_ The Sorting Hat huffed in a disappointed tone. _'Brave little one, aren't you? Your father was much the same, though at least_ he _had an entertaining sense of humour. '_ Cloth shifted atop his head as the hat twitched in thought. _'Though none of his pranks came even close to that one time little Avery wet himself a few decades back the first time he put me on...'_

Frowning, Harry fisted his hands in the long robes draped over his stick-thin frame. The Potter wasn't sure the hat should be amusing itself at the misfortune of children. It wasn't this Avery's fault if he was just too nervous when a dirty old hat decided to start talking to him _in his head_.

Harry had been in awe of the obvious magic that Sorting Hat had to have been made of, and its clever song – but it seemed the thing was just a miserable old rotter!

' _How rude!'_ The hat cut in with an offended tone, easily following the boy's train of thought even if Harry hadn't been actually thinking directly at it. _'I'll have you know that a touch of schadenfreude is one of the few pleasures I get to enjoy in life!'_ A heavy impression of dusty centuries at the top of a bookshelf with nothing beyond rare voyeurism crossed over to Harry, making the boy bite his lip and offer up a grumbling apology.

Humming in acceptance, the Sorting Hat subsided and reached faint tendrils across the edges of Harry's mind. _'Plenty of courage and talent, not a bad mind either.'_ Memories floated from the recesses of the boy's subconscious, whispering _Boy!_ and _Freak_ and _There is no such thing as magic._ The strength of conviction – _I will prove them wrong, prove them all wrong_ – sent the Sorting Hat's exploration rocking back with a tone of satisfaction. _'And such thirst to prove yourself, but where to put you?'_

' _Gryffindor'_. Harry decided firmly, thinking of long lost parents never met. Knowing that both his parents had come from the House was more than enough to predispose the boy towards it. A few absent words from a boy his age that knew more about his parents than he did – and wasn't _that_ sad? – were enough to make up Harry's mind.

' _Are you sure?'_ The Hat queried, poking delicately at the raw edges of Harry's emotions. Longing and loneliness entwined in a fierce embrace. _'You could be great, you know? And Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness! There's no doubt about that…'_

The determination to join the Lions only burned hotter and brighter at the prodding, and Harry even resorted to chanting over and over _'Gryffindor!'_ in a litany that left no space for further exhortation.

The rip in the brim of the Sorting Hat that served as a mouthpiece seemed to curl in amusement. _'Well if you're sure…'_ It trailed, before opening wide in a bellow of "Gryffindor!"

Ron pushed the last few flecks of mashed potato from his dinner around his plate. The last pangs of hunger in the Weasley boy's stomach had long since faded away to a feeling of heavy fullness. But being raised in a family of more… limited means pushed Ron to accept food where he could find it, even when he wasn't really hungry.

Scraping up another mouthful, the redhead winced past the feeling of his bloated belly and stared up the table at his brothers. Fred and George were both in a similar state if the way the twins stared morosely at their still half-full plates was any indication. Percy was off somewhere else, probably doing prefect-ly things.

The thought made the redhead wince. As glad as Ron was to be sorted into Gryffindor, being under the direct view of his prim and proper brother was hardly a blessing. "You done?" he muttered out of the side of his mouth to Harry.

"Mmhmm." The Boy-Who-Lived nodded sleepily, having eaten nearly as much as Ron himself and being similarly lethargic. "Do we just go to the dorms, or what?"

Shrugging, Ron craned his head around in search of his prefect brother. "Oi, Percy! Do we just go on up or what?"

"Only if you're looking to get lost, Ronald." Percy called back in a tired tone, stalking up and down the rows between the tables and observing the state of Gryffindor's first years. Nodding in satisfaction, the fifth-year cupped his hands around his mouth for a dull bellow. "All Gryffindor first-years line up by the doors! Travel in one group and stay behind me!"

Similar calls from the prefects for the other Hogwarts houses echoed after, spurring a great flurry of movement as the utterly drained first years shuffled into four lines. Months of nervous energy waiting to go to Hogwarts had finally taken its toll on the children, and most of them longed for little more than the comforts of a warm bed.

Trundling after Percy through the halls, Ron took the time to properly gape at all the moving staircases and hundreds of moving portraits. "This is bloody amazing, it is!" the redhead laughed, seamlessly hauling Seamus Finnigan back to his feet when the Irish boy sunk through a trick stair.

"Thanks mate!"

Waving off the sandy-haired boy, Ron nudged an elbow into Harry's side as they stepped off onto the seventh floor. The two first years shared and incredulous look at the portrait of a morbidly obese woman that Percy was leading them towards.

"I think I found Dudley's real mother." The auburn-haired boy breathed faintly, committing the password of _pig snout_ to memory in a daze. Having heard from Harry about his portly cousin over dinner, Ron spared a sharp smirk before diving through the circular portrait hole.

Blue eyes widened at the cozy warmth of the room they stepped into. With red plush couches, squashy armchairs, great sweeping crimson curtains, strategically placed desks, and a roaring fire, Gryffindor's common room gave off an instant atmosphere of hominess.

"Boys' dormitories are up the staircase to the left – _your_ right." Percy declared, faint anxiety bubbling under the new prefect's stern expression. "Girls' dormitories are up the staircase to the left. All luggage has already been placed in your room. Rules are posted on the bulletin board behind me."

Motioning vaguely over his head, Percy gave a ferocious frown. "Boys are not permitted in the girls' dormitories, and girls are not permitted in the boys' dormitories. There are protective enchantments in place, so I sincerely warn you _not_ to try your luck".

"Don't mind Perce, he's just an old duffer." A redheaded boy whispered in a conspiratory tone. "And still a bit sore over the toads in his undies last night." Finished a second that appeared identical.

Fred and George smiled shamelessly when Percy gave them a pointed glare. Lounging in a pair of chairs, the twins gave the first years energetic waves. "I'm Fred." One said, "And I'm George" claimed the other. "If you're looking for a proper bit of mischief, we're your lads!" the twins chorused.

Turning brick red, Percy only breathed heavily through his nostrils before shaking his head. "That's all for tonight. I advise you to go to bed and be properly rested for your first day of classes tomorrow. Lights go out at ten tonight, and every other weeknight. Eleven for weekends."

Blinking owlishly as Percy exited in a swirl of robes, Ron turned to the girl at his side and shrugged. "Good night, I guess?"

"Night." Agreed Harry before the Potter vanished up the boys' staircase behind a young Irish lad. Ron watched after him for a few moments, thinking that Harry Potter was very different than what he would have expected from the Boy-Who-Lived.

Even if the quiet hardness in his emerald eyes belied the oddly timid demeanor.

* * *

At six minutes past midnight, the stone wall hiding the passageway to Slytherin's common room swung inward with a quiet grind of stone-on-stone. Emptiness stood in the entryway for a few tense heartbeats.

Shifting like a mirror, rippling patterns like heat shimmers passed along the corridors as Draco crept through the castle under the concealment of a disillusionment charm. The Malfoy grinned at the nostalgic thrill creeping in his veins. It had been a very long time since the blond had the opportunity to simply take part in a spot of childish mischief.

The years of the Second Death Eater Uprising had pressured Draco – forcing the boy to develop skills merely to survive the murderous Dark Lord he'd served and the creature's psychopathic servants. Romps through the halls of Hogwarts for a sweet late night snack had developed into heart pounding covert journeys through the halls of his own home.

By the end of his fifth year, Draco's skill with disillusionment charms and infiltration had become so advanced the only one that ever knew where the Malfoy boy was had been the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord always knew, and the knowledge of the younger Malfoy's developing skill combined with the older Malfoy's disgrace had inspired the monster to select Draco for the task of murdering Albus Dumbledore.

Not even the blond's failure at doing so had dissuaded the Dark Lord from shaping the Malfoy heir into a tool for his use.

' _My son, my son –'_

' _See, Draco? Am I not kind? Am I not merciful?'_

' _My Lord-'_

' _Do not fail me again.'_

Assassin was not the career Narcissa would ever have chosen for her son, but it was precisely the one the Dark Lord insisted on. There were only so much of his mother's screams and father's hoarse whispers Draco could take. Even if the cost of silencing them was to replace them with the blood of tortured muggles.

Draco still heard their screams in his dreams.

' _Please no, please don't-'_

Drawing up his aunt's teachings like a cloak – _empty your mind, Draco_ – the blond poured his feeling into the void. Compartmentalizing his heart and his memories, Draco spun himself out to the thinnest point, threads of personality muting tasteless and unmoved.

Rather than the blunt and obvious magical shield of the mind against the intrusion of other spellcasters that Draco had attempted to use against the Sorting Hat, the Malfoy fell into the deepest level of occlumency. _Bury your heart, and none can use it against you._

_Not even yourself._

Coldly focused on the task at hand, Draco quickened his pace. The only thing the boy needed to do was make it to and from the library without being seen or heard. With it being the first day after summer vacation, many of the teachers remained lethargic and off-guard. Slipping past a bleary eye'd Filch Draco cast a silent _Silencio_ on .

The cat padded after the blond from a short while, frustrated attempts at alerting her owner with her silenced infernal yowling failing. Even if Filch couldn't perceive the wayward student, Mrs. Norris could still _smell_ Draco. Golden eyes pierced the dark better, able to follow the faint bending of light around the Malfoy's cloaked form despite Draco taking care not to step within the range of the torches lighting the hallways.

Rounding a corner with the feline on his heels, Draco spun about and wordlessly transfigured the animal into a pincushion. The dust coloured cushion flopped to the stone flagstones, twin lamp-like buttons winking eerily on its surface in the dark. Scooping the transfigured pet up, Draco tossed it in a random abandoned classroom and hurried on his way to the library. Hopefully that would hold her for a few hours.

Draco had to get a grounding in this topsy-turvy world, and quickly. Before he said or did something irrevocably damning.

Slipping through the unwarded doors to the Hogwarts Library, the camouflaged first year gave a cursory scan for Madam Pince. The first time around as a student, Draco had rarely been one to sneak in and out of the library after hours like some Ravenclaw. But it wouldn't surprise the Slytherin in the least if the possessive vulture _slept_ in the library.

Satisfied he was alone, Draco hurried between the stacks. Commentaries on recent history seemed like the wisest choice. Since Hogwarts itself, Diagon Alley, and Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters appeared exactly as he remembered, the Malfoy could at least assume _some_ similarities. Most importantly, the Malfoy family was still rich.

Grasping a copy of _The Rise and Fall of The Dark Arts_ and _Modern Magical History,_ Draco tucked them under his arm and crept over to the great paned windows that cast pale light over the desks over the library.

Reading by moonlight was time consuming, pace slowed by the need to squint to read in the dim illumination. But casting a spell for more light was absolutely out of the question. Books left on the tables, turning slowly could be dismissed as tomes forgotten after use with pages flipping by faint wind. Light floating at the end of an invisible wand was just a _touch_ more suspicious.

Invisible fingers flipped open _The Rise and Fall of The Dark Arts_ , paging through to the final seconds regarding the Dark Lord's insurrection and fall before the crib of the Potter infant. Leaning close to the letters, Draco frowned in concentration and began to read.

'… _The momentum behind the decades long surge in Dark Magical activity vanished overnight as the second Dark Lord in a century was toppled by a feat of unknown magic cast by Harry Potter on October 31, 1980._

_Recall that following the defeat of Gellert Grindelwald at the hands of Albus Dumbledore in 1945 heralded a significant collapse in the activity of Dark Magic. Just as in the case of Dark Lord Grindelwald, the years following the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named experienced a surge of prosperity for general wizarding society. Spread of Lycanthropy diminished to a mere trickle, and Dark Arts spell development returned to the prosecuted underground from whence it came._

_It must be remembered that though Dark Magic always exists, it experiences notable flows and ebbs. When the Wizarding World had Dark Lords to contend with, Dark Magic itself abounds with creativity and vitality. When Dark Lords are defeated, development and influence of Dark Magic turns moribund…'_

Scowling at the pages, Draco rubbed dry eyes. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Brandy burned a trail of sticky heat down his gullet as Lucius swirled the last drops of cognac around the bottom of his snifter. The expensive French import brewed by a storied and suitably pure family from the South-West of France was fit for a Malfoy's palate.

But the Malfoy patriarch struggled to find any of the usual enjoyment he took as his due from the finer things in life. The only relief from his thoughts came from the dulling the sharp edges of his emotions under the influence of alcohol.

Narcissa had long since retired to their chambers, lips drawn tight with simultaneous anxiety about their son and about the tension she could see in the faint tightening of her husband's eyes. They had been married many years, and kept very little from one another.

Lucius took Narcissa's silence for what it was – a tacit expectation that once he'd worked through his thoughts, that he would share any conclusions made with her. This gave the Malfoy Lord free range to hole up in his study and imbibe like a pleb as his thoughts turned in circles.

Draco was merely a boy, and there was much his son had yet to learn about the world and how it worked, so rationally Lucius should pay little mind to his son's ideas. But Draco's uncharacteristic boldness before leaving that morning had brought to the surface old fears and old grudges.

When the Dark Lord came knocking, one did not _choose_ to enter service. They simply did, unless they would choose to die. From that moment, a wizard and his family belonged to the Dark Lord's service.

For Lucius, there was even less choice than most. It was a given from the day of his birth that he would aid the firebrand Abraxas Malfoy had been funding from the shadows. Draco would have had even less choice than Lucius himself, as the Dark Lord's skill meant even the threat of losing Malfoy gold was next to nothing to that creature.

It had been an utter abasement, but what other choice had there been? The Dark Lord had simply grown far too powerful for any pureblood to survive opposing him alone.

The downfall of the Dark Lord had been good for him, and good for many of the old crowd. Their freedom had been a quiet liberation – whispered and hushed about in pureblood halls, for none wanted to admit that they'd gambled and lost on Voldemort's cruelty..

In his heart of hearts, Lucius feared. The Malfoy Patriarch had his doubts that Slytherin's heir was truly as dead and gone as many believed. _Voldemort_ had seemed too powerful to die. Not human enough for mortality to bind him. Which spurred the question – when the Dark Lord returned, what was to be done?

Serve again, and be tortured and possibly mutilated? Turn his cloak, and aid the masses of mudbloods and blood-traitors? Lucius wouldn't be allowed to sit back and do nothing, and he doubted the excuse of the Imperius Curse would work a second time.

Grey eyes fixed on the winking emeralds set in the spitting silver snake that was the handle of his wand. Draco had stumbled, rather unwittingly it seemed, on a conundrum that the older pureblood families had all wondered about during the Dark Lord's reign, but none had dared to actually investigate.

Where had Slytherin's heir truly come from? What was the truth of the Dark Lord's lineage? That the sorcerer had been descended from Salazar was indisputable with the mastery of snakes, but if the Dark Lord was truly the epitome of purity, why did he hide his name and house?

As crass as Draco had put it, perhaps the Dark Lord was even a shameful half-breed son of a muggle and blood traitor. Which was just another thing Lucius would have to work out of Draco's mind when he could. It was all well and good to think for oneself – that Malfoy family would not be so rich and powerful if their Lords had been weak-minded. But without the safety of occlumency training, Draco would only die when the Dark Lord returned and caught such an irreverent thought in the boy's mind.

The creature may also just kill Lucius and Narcissa as well out of spite. Training in the mind arts was a lesson Lucius would have left until Draco was nearly finished of Hogwarts, but it seemed the blonde did not have that luxury any longer. He would train Draco in the mind arts himself at the first opportunity. Lucius could do no less for his only son.

Fixing a burning silver gaze on his inkpot, Lucius dipped the well-pruned point of his peacock feather quill into the ink and began to write.

' _Yaxley,_

_My old friend, it has been far too long since we had a proper chat…'_


	3. The Horrors of Turning Hufflepuff

The chatter of students in the Great Hall on the first day of class vibrated through the air at a dull roar. Dishes clattered intermittently as child and adult alike tore into a hearty Monday morning breakfast. Bacon was fried to perfection, and joined with lovingly boiled eggs. Pancakes were slathered in sweet syrup and then piled high.

Pulling her shoulders in around herself in an instinctive effort to minimize the target she presented to bullies with a sharp tongue, Hermione decided that for the second time she could remember, she hated a Monday.

Mondays typically meant a return to class, where the quick-minded girl could soak in the knowledge provided by her instructors and expand the horizons of her mind to its content. Mondays meant another week of pushing herself to her limits and showcasing the brain that set her apart and gave her existence indisputable value. It was a necessary exercise for Hermione's confidence, and sustained her self-belief.

But like the very first Monday that ever meant something to her, Hermione's first Monday at Hogwarts was a strong and poignant statement as to the utter loneliness of the life she lived. People spoke _around_ her, forming friendships that the bushy haired girl was never invited to be part of. And soon enough, when she proved to simply know more, People would speak venom at her.

The only people that really spoke to Hermione Granger were her professors and her parents.

She still remembered the first day of her first year in school. Already Hermione had devoured all the books that her parents owned – or at least the ones that were comprehensible to her. Those that weren't were set aside so she could return in the future and devour them as well. She'd long since tired her parents out to a fond amusement with her asking for more to read. The buck-toothed brunette never discriminated based on content. History was swallowed down with just as much fervor as the tale of Snow White.

'Why?' was a question every child asked of their parents sooner or later. Most moved on as they grew, and bowed down to simple pleasures. Hermione never stopped. 'Why does the worm wiggle, Daddy? Why does the rain come, Mommy?' Inquiry after inquiry, piling up and never being able to fill a relentless hunger for knowledge. Hermione just had more curiosity than the average child, and while her parents called her smart her classmates had different terms for her.

Know-it-all. Weirdo. Loner. Freak.

And Hermione had sniffled and accepted the insults, because she knew that she _was_ different. She'd never been able to get along with her muggle peers, and Hermione wondered if she ever would have learnt to. Luckily she didn't have to, because she was a witch, and that made her more than the kids who'd taunted her rather than less.

She just hoped that the magical world would be kinder to her than the nonmagical one had been.

"Your schedule, Miss Granger." A dry voice broke through Hermione's thoughts, startling the bushy haired girl and making her give a quiet shriek of surprise.

A tiny grin pulled at one corner of McGonagall's wrinkled mouth as Hermione jumped in her seat, but the hint of amusement was gone so quickly the first year witch wondered if she'd actually seen it at all. "Thank you, Professor." Hermione mumbled, accepting her weekly schedule with prickles of mortification.

The Scottish witch just nodded sharply, turning on her booted heel and moving to hand off class schedules to the rest of her students. Hermione stared after the formidable woman, brown eyes watching the pointed tip of the Transfiguration Professor's hat waggle with every step.

Hermione still hadn't managed to get used to how different the fashions the Wizarding World were.

Determined not to be caught staring like a loon, Hermione moved her focus back to her plate and began to nibble at the scrambled eggs she'd piled up on it. The tide of conversation around her continued to rise and fall as students wandered into the Great Hall and left after they'd finished breakfast. No voice managed to touch her, and being surrounded by other children having conversations with other people just made Hermione feel even more alone.

Was the rest of her life going to continue on like this?

"Merlin's beard." Ron moaned, dropping into the seat directly across from Hermione and rubbing at his gritty eyes.

"Are you alright?"

"Just tired is all." The freckled boy grumbled, waving off Hermione's cautious question with a flapping hand. "At least we've got History of Magic right after potions. Fred and George said that's the best class to catch up on your sleep in."

Hermione's first instinct was to give Ron Weasley a good scolding. What sort of numbskull decided they were just going to sleep in class on the very first day? But with a clench of the jaw she bit back the stinging reprimand she had been about to deliver. Regardless of his questionable commitment to their classes, Ron had at least been polite to her.

If there was a chance to finally make some friends at Hogwarts, Hermione was going to try her hardest not to mess it up. And if that meant that she had to let things go a few times, then that was exactly what Hermione would do. So rather than tear a strip of Ron for his sloth, she settled for a more neutral "Are you sure you want to take a nap on the first day?"

Ron grimaced, swallowing down a mouthful of toast and then taking a sip of orange juice. "Suppose not." The redhead admitted, blue eyes shifting to the Great Hall's entrance every few seconds. "I reckon it wouldn't be the smartest thing to do, yeah? Don't suppose you've seen Harry this morning yet, have you?"

Blinking at the sudden change of topic, Hermione tried to ignore the fluttering in her belly as she shrugged. "I had expected that he'd be with you." The trembling in her gut on intensified when Ron shook his head and then started telling her some of the stories his brothers had told him about the school.

Hermione had always known it was best not to dream, because the real world always fell short in the end. But no matter how much she tried to focus on her bad experiences in the past, the brunette wasn't able to quite kill the quiet hum of hope building inside of her.

Maybe she'd have friends after all.

* * *

Harry pressed his sleeve over his mouth and coughed quietly. The damp dungeon air was tickling his throat, and he wasn't looking forward to finding out how much worse it would be once their class actually started brewing portions.

"Don't hack up a lung there Potter."

Glaring out of the corner of an emerald eye at Malfoy, Harry wondered if he should fire back at Draco's taunt. He knew the blond boy wasn't making snide comments to be _mean_ , but in Harry's opinion there should be more to a friendship than snarking at each other.

"Looking forward to potions, Malfoy?" Harry prodded, sniffling into his sleeve one last time before staring back up at the blackboard. He'd come a little early to his first class and picked out a table to sit at with Ron, only to have the Slytherin plop down beside him and declare they'd be potions partners.

Draco just shrugged. "What will be will be." He replied airily, silver orbs narrowing in thought. "Just remember what I told you and you'll make it."

Harry hummed below his breath, trying not to roll his eyes at the nagging. The blond had decided to give Harry a crash course in how to behave in the potions lab, laying out half a dozen little rules that Draco told Harry he would need to make his life easier.

Especially since Draco claimed that he'd heard Snape would make it a personal mission to keep the 'famous Harry Potter' from getting a big head.

Any further conversation was cut off by a shrill bell that rung through the air, signalling the start of the lesson. Half a heartbeat later the door to the laboratory crashed open, admitting the tall dark form of Hogwarts' Potions Professor.

Snape swooped to the front of the room like a giant greasy bat, black eyes glowering at the first year Gryffindors. "There will be no foolish wand waving or silly incantations in this class." The professor declared coldly, voice deep and brisk. "As such I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science or the exact art that is potion making."

Biting the inside of his cheek, Draco let the rest of Snape's little introduction pass in one ear and out the other. Some things never changed it seemed. After falling through time and possibly crossing into another universe entirely, the fact that the speech Snape always gave first years in Draco's 'home' timeline was the same 'here' was a little comforting.

Snape rattled through the roll call, pausing at Harry's name before weighing the Boy-Who-Lived with his unfathomable ebony gaze. A few seconds passed where Draco waited to see if Snape would tear a strip off Potter, but they passed without further comments as the professor finished checking attendance.

Maybe Granger had been on to something when she claimed that Snape had wanted to shag Potter's mum. _This_ Potter looked much more like Lily Evans, which might be enough for the professor to bite back his hatred of Potter Senior.

Years ago Draco would have been on the edge of his seat salivating at the thought that his sarcastic and bitter Head of House would be launching into another insulting tirade about Gryffindor's golden boy. But after the years of terror and violence and death a schoolboy's grudge seemed almost inconsequential. Draco didn't _like_ Potter, but he didn't hate Harry either. Which was just as well, since Draco had to try and be Potter's 'friend' in order to win the war.

Playing rival to the Boy-Who-Lived had been exhausting and frustrating the first time, and beneath all the occlumency Draco was _tired_. Not physically, but in a bone deep way that could only be chased away by greater glories like the adrenaline thrill of real battle or unnatural headiness that came with casting dark magic.

A sharp elbow dug into Draco's side, rousing him from his daze and drawing his attention to a vaguely worried looking Harry. The redhead shook his head at the blond, jerking a meaningful chin up at the board and turning back to his own sheets of parchment.

Draco repressed the urge to sigh, glancing up at the board. Their class wouldn't be brewing anything for weeks since Snape intended for them to have a good grounding in the theory of potions and know how to use their tools before he'd even consider letting them near a cauldron. Which was a good idea considering how talentless so many of his yearmates had turned out to be in the subject.

But Draco was no bumbling first year, and the only thing he'd get out of taking notes about the different kinds of cauldrons would be a sore hand. He was tempted to apply to sit his OWLs and avoid the drudgery that was going to come with living his school life over again. Going to Hogwarts consumed a lot of time, and Draco would be getting very little results from the investment.

But rather unfairly – in Draco's opinion – he had to stick to Potter's arse like a leech for the next few years and try to keep the boy wonder alive.

What a joy.

Clenching his jaw, Draco dipped his peacock feather quill into the nearest inkpot and began to write. It wouldn't do to look like some kind of freak genius after all. Otherwise they'd probably try and make him skip a year.

Still, maybe he could sell his notes at the end of the year to some ickle firstie for a few galleons. Or maybe Draco would just gift them to Weaselette or Loony Lovegood. That seemed like the sort of thing the children of truth and righteousness would do, and since Granger had cocked it all up Draco would have to be one of them.

The thought was vomit-inducing.

Bugger it all.

* * *

Sweat collected on Draco's palms, and it took his deepest and more desperate occlumency to shove back the urge to get up and flee the room screaming. He'd taken his seat in the back of the room, huddled between the hulking forms of Crabbe and Goyle, and done his best to look small and unnoticeable.

None of that was enough to prepare him to share a classroom with the Dark Lord. Just _knowing_ that barely twenty paces away Voldemort's face was concealed beneath Quirrell's smelly turban was almost enough to send Draco into a panic attack.

_It's okay. Stay calm._

Quirrell was nattering on in his affected stutter, not looking in the least bit distressed or concerned about the fact that Harry Potter was front and center in his classroom. It was world class acting, and if he wasn't afraid the man would snap and start throwing Unforgivables Draco might even be impressed.

Thank God Vince and Greg weren't canny enough to notice that Draco was behaving more like a little Ravenclaw than the pompous Slytherin he'd been the first time around. Though based on the quizzical glance Blaise kept throwing over his shoulders Draco's new habits weren't going entirely unseen.

Well it didn't really matter. Blaise was clever, but the half-Italian wizard was more likely to chalk the change up to nerves rather than assume Draco was a time traveller. Not that Draco would blame him. The truth really was stranger than fiction.

Draco ignored the sidealong glances that Blaise kept shooting at him in favour of dully taking notes. The simply mindless motion of copying what Quirrell conjured up on the board settled the blond's shaky nerves, and a healthy application of compartmentalizing his emotions did the rest.

If not for Occlumency, Draco rather suspected he'd be a nutter. Or perhaps he already was one, since only a nutter would bargain with Death and jump through time just to save 'mummy and daddy'.

As the clock ticked on, Draco managed to sink into a wary stupor keeping one eye on Quirrell and one eye on the back of Potter's messy auburn hair. Classes and assignments aside, Draco was expecting a _very_ busy school year. He still needed to keep peering through the history books to see if he could encounter more divergences between the timeline he'd come from and the one he was living in. His foreknowledge was already of dubious value.

Regardless, Draco supposed he'd have to plan as if his experiences of the future could be applied to the second life he was living. Quirrell might not actually be possessed by the Dark Lord, but Draco would tread carefully and assume the man was. Which meant that while he could join Potter's merry little band of blood traitors and do his best to train them up, Draco couldn't actually take an outright stance against the Dark Lord when the chips were down.

Draco rather liked having his head attached to his shoulders, and if the Dark Lord rose again he'd rather not be tortured and killed as a spy. Cozying up to Potter was just 'politically smart'. Outright opposing the Dark Lord was making an enemy of the dark wizard.

Throwing a cursory glance about the room to make sure no one was watching him, Draco carefully laid a little scrap of parchment on the desk and began to sort the storm of his thoughts. Planning further down the line could be done later, but he needed to get his first year sorted out before his went strutting down into the Slytherin Common Room.

First thing was first, he needed to keep up some sort of friendship with Potter and his sidekicks. Granger was clever, but she was still a little girl, and Draco couldn't rely on her to whip the other two into shape. So he'd keep a civil tongue in his head and pop in and out to teach the trio some of the things they'd need to stay alive. There wasn't much point in coming back to the past if the Dark Lord won again.

Scratching out _'1 – Make nice with the goons and toughen them up'_ , Draco chewed his lip in thought.

The second thing Draco would need to do was craft a good image. Throwing money around and threatening to tell his father was just embarrassing, even if he hadn't seen it that way when he was actually a child. Like a true Slytherin Draco needed to be a friend to all and an enemy to none. Which mean rubbing elbows with purebloods and mudbloods alike.

The thought made him want to shiver. Maybe Draco could admit that muggleborns weren't _actually_ filthy, but with their new customs and different outlooks they were little more than muggles with magic and he still didn't feel that they really belonged in the Wizarding World.

' _2 – Make some allies'_ joined Draco's first point.

Should he get involved in unmasking Quirrell? Potter had done well enough the first time around on his own, but that didn't mean he'd succeed this time. The Boy-Who-Lived had to run out of luck sometime, and if he kicked the bucket before getting rid of the Dark Lord Draco would be between a rock and a hard place.

But again, Draco couldn't afford to oppose the Dark Lord directly. Maybe he could just give them a few nudges in the right direction? He'd discussed every angle of the timeline with Granger in excruciating detail before they'd attempted to travel to the past, so Draco knew all about Potter's first year – from the nonsense with Hagrid's Cerberus to the fact that Nicholas Flamel's Philosopher's Stone was apparently in the castle.

Just the thought made Draco want to drool. He'd dabbled in alchemy for years, and the possibility of being able to see and touch and even possibly _steal_ Flamel's stone was beyond tempting. But rationally Draco doubted Flamel had given Dumbledore the _real_ stone, since Flamel had lived for hundreds of years without losing the thing to any one of the dozens of Dark Lords that had tried to take it. The whole setup was probably just a trap for a desperate Voldemort.

Reluctantly, Draco put the possibility of stealing the Philosopher's Stone out of his mind and jotted down _'3 – Help the goons get a headscarf (hands off)'_.

Had anything else of note happened during his first year? Draco had done very little besides attend class. There was the business of stealing Longbottom's Remembrall and getting Potter on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, along with reporting the fact that Potter was smuggling out the dragon the oafish gameskeeper hatched in his hut.

Well Draco had no intention of playing snitch on Potter this year. He had better things to do, and it would be counterproductive.

Silver eyes examined the short and bizarrely coded list he'd just written down. It was a good start Draco supposed, but it seemed… weak. Especially since he was trying to prevent a war, or at least win one if it couldn't be prevented.

Dipping his peacock feather quill back into his inkpot, Draco began to refine his plans.

' _4 – Make sure bucktooth doesn't get squished by a troll'…  
_

* * *

"No Potter, you do it like _this_."

Harry rolled his eyes and watched as Draco slowly waved his wand in a simple twist. Part of him wanted to snap that he didn't need Malfoy's help, but the rest of him shoved down the irritation in favour of not offending his Slytherin acquaintance.

(Harry would have called Draco a friend, but he wasn't sure that someone who did little but offer help during class was a real friend.)

But acquaintance or not, it didn't make the blond any less of an arse. Draco was impatient and more than a little haughty. Still, at least Draco was _trying_. He'd never once made fun of Harry or Ron like some of the other Slytherins did. Draco even avoided insulting Hermione, despite the muggleborn witch growing bossier and more homework obsessed as the days went on.

Sighing at the expectant look on Malfoy's face, Harry brushed the auburn fringe of his bangs out of his eyes and took twirled his holly wand through the motions his classmate had tried to beat into him. A muttered incantation passed through Harry's lips, and green orbs watched carefully as the matchstick he'd been trying to transfigure smoothly transformed into a glittering silver needle.

"Thanks... Draco." Harry grinned. Maybe the blond was a bit of a ponce, but Malfoy was a decent one. He didn't _have_ to spend his time helping Harry with classwork, but he did. And it wasn't like he was just trying to cosy up to the Boy-Who-Lived either. Draco looked like he'd been sucking a sour lemon every time someone brought up Harry's unwanted fame, and he offered just as much help to Ron and Hermione. The least Harry could do after that was call the other boy by his actual name.

A queer expression pulled at Draco's face. It was as if he couldn't decide if he wanted to be horrified or amused. "You're welcome, _Harry_." Draco muttered, gripping his green and silver striped necktie like it was a lifeline. Then the blond spun on his heel, striding away and cursing under his breath. "Buggering fuck... _rolling_ over in his grave... might as well be a damn _Hufflepuff_..."

"What's eating him?" Ron snorted, quirking one ginger eyebrow up as the Slytherin wandered back and hovered near Crabbe and Goyle. The two gormless bodyguards leapt up at their leader's approach, and in short order began to desperately try to master the spell in an effort to please Malfoy. "Do you think the good deeds are getting to him? He _is_ a Malfoy. Maybe trying so hard to be good if gonna make him explode."

"What does that even mean?"

"What's _what_ mean?"

"He's a Malfoy." Harry quoted, poking at the tip of his needle and wincing when a tiny bead of blood sprouted from his fingertip. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Ron blinked, biting his lip with a little frustration. "Didn't mean to say that. Just slipped out, ya know?" And it _had_. No matter what sort of stories he'd grown up hearing about the Malfoys, Ron wanted to give the other boy a fair shake. His mum had always told him to judge people by their character rather than what they were. "But everyone says the Malfoys are richer than God and up to their eyeballs in dark magic."

"How perfectly prejudiced, Ronald." Hermione spoke up snidely, turning around and folding her arms over her chest. She narrowed her brown eyes, having grown more assertive as the days passed and it became clear that her tentative friends wouldn't run off whenever she gave them a mild scolding. "If you ask me, I think Draco is a _nice_ boy. He's ever so helpful and doesn't pick on anyone. I've never once heard him say a mean thing about your family, which is more than what I can say about you."

The freckled boy coloured, pinning Harry with a blue eyed glare as his friend began to look more and more amused. "I said I didn't mean it, didn't I? Merlin's beard, by the way you're carrying on anyone would think you fancied him."

"I do not fancy _anyone_ , Ron Weasley."

Ron stared, watched the color slowly build on Hermione's cheeks before shaking his head in horror. "You _do_ fancy him!" he accused, grabbing hold of Harry's robes and vigorously shaking the other redhead. "How can she fancy him? She's _eleven_ , and he's probably got Slytherin germs or something!"

"Slytherin germs? I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life."

"You know, from the way you two keep going at each other maybe you fancy each other rather than Malfoy." Harry sighed, fixing his spectacles back on his nose and slapping Ron's hands away. "Opposites attract and all that rot."

"Harry!"

"Nobody fancies _anyone_ , Harry Potter!"

* * *

Draco pressed a hand to his forehead, slowly counting to ten before waving his wand at the two piles of parchment piled on the desk that was shoved into the back corner of the Slytherin Common Room. The students milling about under the green light weren't paying much attention to the blond boy that had briefly stepped into the dark corner in order to make copies of his daily notes.

It wasn't that Draco needed to hide per se, but he'd rather avoid questions about how he could silently use a fourth year charm that would copy all the notes written on one stack of pages to the other. For one, he didn't want to have all the Slytherin firsties begging him to make them copies as if Draco was some sort of goody goody _Hufflepuff_. And second, he didn't want people ranting on about how much of a genius he was at the tender age of eleven. Catching on quickly in class was one thing, but knowing spells years early might attract too much notice.

Merlin's balls, he had no desire to be the next Granger. He just needed to keep working to cement Greg's and Vince's loyalty. Which meant giving the two boys the sweets his mother sent from home, helping them during lessons, making copies of his notes since they had no idea what to copy down, and even devoting some time to help with their essays. It probably wouldn't be that hard, since Draco had been an utter git to both of them the first time and they'd been loyal for years despite that.

Vince had turned on Draco in the end, but Greg had stayed loyal. Of course, that might have less to do with loyalty and more to do with the fact that Vince was just _barely_ smart enough to have his own ambition while Greg was so dumb he just believed that Draco always knew best. Either way, a little kindness to the pair of oafs couldn't hurt. They weren't smart, but they'd grown on Draco, and if he could keep them alive and on _his_ side, he'd do it.

Six years of loyalty hadn't been washed out by one betrayal, and Draco had no desire to see Vince burn to death again.

Gathering up his notes, Draco pocketed the originals and rolled up the copies into a thin bundle. "Vince!" he barked as he stepped out of the shadows and into the green light. It took no more than a handful of seconds for his 'minion' to waddle on over, and as soon as the stocky boy was in reach Draco was shoving the copied notes for the day into Crabbe's beefy hands.

A grin pulled at Vince's flabby face, and after mumbling a thanks the dark haired boy practically strutted back across the common room towards Goyle.

Draco observed Crabbe's waddling with a sense of disgusted amusement. Thank Merlin he'd never let _his_ body get so overweight. The hours of broom flying and Quidditch kept him lean and muscled in both lives, and if things stayed the same Draco's two 'bodyguards' would be positively obese by fifth year. Two years playing Beater had managed to slim both Greg and Vince down, but they'd never quite managed to attain perfect physical fitness.

Maybe that was something Draco ought to look into. Once flying lessons for first years were done, their restrictions on bringing brooms to school would be lifted. It would be the second term by then, and winter, but by spring it would be warm enough for a few hours of flying a week. Getting the two lumps a pair of Cleansweeps would be little more than a drop in the ocean of the Malfoy fortune, and might help keep them fit.

Draco's father had once told him that a man was judged by the quality of his servants. Hence why all the Malfoy house elves wore clean and embroidered pillow cases - except Dobby; who was a rebellious little nutter and refused to do it. Crabbe and Goyle basically _were_ Draco's servants at Hogwarts, and if all went well they might even be his hired muscle for the rest of his life. So human or not, maybe Draco ought to put a little effort in getting the two trained up and cleaned up.

Speaking of brooms though - what ought he do about Potter and the Quidditch team? Draco doubted the thin confident Longbottom he'd encountered on the train was going to make a fool of himself and set up the possibility of the Remembrall Incident. And even if Longbottom did, Draco doubted Harry would appreciate him acting like an arse. But without that whole fiasco, Potter wouldn't make the team until at least second year; assuming the Boy-Who-Lived tried out at all.

Unless Draco found another way for Harry to make a scene.

And while Draco was hardly going to cry if Potter didn't get another dose of fame, he had to think more like a politician and less like a schoolboy. Being the Youngest Seeker in a Century was a big deal to all the naive brats wandering Hogwarts' halls. Quidditch in general mattered. Making the team granted almost as much prestige as making prefect, and any Slytherin with a lick of sense knew the value in setting oneself above the crowd. There was a _reason_ Draco's father had basically bought Draco's way onto the team in second year.

Thank Merlin Draco had been good enough not to make an utter fool of himself. No one complained too much if a decently skilled Seeker got a leg up with a donation of gold, but a bumbling fool would have become an utter laughing stock no matter how much gold he tossed around.

Decisions, decisions...

"Malfoy, you got a minute?"

"I _suppose_ so, Zabini. What do you need?"

"I had a few questions about the transfiguration notes today..."


	4. Broomsticks and Baubles

A week into the term found Draco gritty eyed and wandering the Room of Hidden Things two hours passed curfew. He'd followed Granger's instructions step by painful step, and hadn't managed to encounter hide nor hair of the Dark Lord's horcrux.

"Where the fuck are you?" the blond bellowed in frustration, young voice echoing between the piled stacks of illicit stashed goods and around the vast marble columns dotted about the place. The room seemed like it might be even more of a maze compared to usual, although being an ickle firstie might be throwing Draco's sense of direction off.

Draco was tempted to just give up and leave after throwing some friendfyre about for good measure, but common sense kept a tight leash on his temper. So many things were _different_ compared to what he'd been prepared for, which meant there was no guarantee that Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem was in the room.

If the Dark Lord had even made it one of his soul containers in this wonky alternate reality. Draco couldn't just assume that Voldemort had done so, and that it was destroyed if he blew the whole room up. Without confirming both of those as fact, he'd be running the risk of thinking a horcrux had been taken care of when it was actually still safe and sound.

An immortal Voldemort was the last person Draco wanted to encounter.

The only thing Draco could do was search and search for the damn thing, and hope that he managed to find it before he died of old age or something equally as stupid. Because unless he managed to stumble upon it out of sheer dumb luck, Draco doubted he'd ever find the horcrux. What if the Dark Lord had shoved it underneath a pile of furniture?

Plopping down on a scuffed old desk, Draco put his head in his hands and sighed. He'd only been in the past for a week and already Draco could feel the pressure mounting. How was he supposed to survive under the pressure of saving everything all by himself? Draco was reminded of his horrible sixth year, except instead of just carrying his parents' lives on his shoulders he carried the lives of _everyone_ in the Wizarding World.

Fucking Granger leaving him in the hot seat; the bitch. Not for the first time Draco wished the bushy haired menace had managed to pull through. It would be just lovely to be able to dump all the world's problems in someone else's lap and spend the next few years lounging on a beach in Majorica.

With a final huff, Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and fixed his glittering silver stare on an empty warped copper owl cage. All he could do was take things as they came. There was no use crying over spilt milk – he'd done it enough the first time around and gained nothing for it.

So.

Horcruxes.

If Granger's story was accurate, the Dark Lord was looking to create enough horcruxes to reach seven soul pieces including his own body. Nagini hadn't been turned into one until after Voldemort's resurrection, so there should be five of them extant. Along with possibly Potter himself, but that was a whole different can of worms that Draco didn't intend to open quite yet.

Slytherin's Locket, Ravenclaw's Diadem, Hufflepuff's Cup, Riddle's diary, and the Gaunt family ring all needed to be found, identified as horcruxes, and destroyed. The diary was simple enough, since Draco would just have to root around in his father's study until he found the damn thing. Finding the locket would have to wait until Sirius Black escaped Azkaban, and he had no idea how to even begin breaking into the Lestrange Vault.

A trip to Little Hangleton for the ring could wait until next summer as well. Which meant all Draco had to do for the next nine months was find the goddamn diadem.

Swallowing back the urge to scream, the blond lurched to his feet and went to inspect one of the smaller towers of junk that filled the Room of Requirement. Draco's questing fingers swiftly discovered a handful of Fizzing Whizbees, a copy of _The Firste Goblyn Rebellion_ , and an empty inkpot.

"Better be careful." He muttered sarcastically, vanishing the old candies and the inkpot with a flick of his wand. "Wouldn't want to strike it rich." Some of the items that students had decided to hide in the room over the years were bafflingly pointless. What was the reasoning behind hiding an old pair of robes? Either use the damn things or get rid of them. Don't stash them among the valuables!

Turning over the dusty old tome he'd picked up, Draco flickered through its yellowed pages before shrugging. He supposed he could go and donate it to the Hogwarts Library. While Draco had more than enough money to buy whatever he wanted ten lifetimes over, his experiences living with the Dark Lord had beaten his willingness to just take things for granted out of him. Waste not, want not, as the plebs said. Someone might want the raggedy old book one day.

In fact, Draco decided as he cast a proprietary eye over the sprawling collection of treasure and junk that filled the Room of Hidden Things, he could do the same with pretty much everything in the room. Take all the valuables for himself, donate the things he didn't want to the school, and get rid of the trash.

An exhausting and irritating task to be sure, but Draco didn't have much of a choice did he? The only way to determine if Ravenclaw's diadem was in the room would be to go through everything, and if he was doing _that_ he might as well get something out of it.

As the exhausted time traveler began casting curse detection spells on an old set of earrings he'd scrounged up, a rather sad thought struck him, and Draco began to roughly chuckle.

To think one day Draco Malfoy would be doing what ought to be a house elf's work. His dozens of blueblooded ancestors would be rolling in their graves if they knew.

It was all Granger's fault anyway.

* * *

"Brooms are like horses. They can smell your fear."

Hermione scowled at Draco's mocking grin, shaking her bushy head at the blond's teasing and stalking the rest of the way out to the Quidditch Pitch with a huff. Draco probably meant well with his teasing, but he was such a _boy_ about things. She needed some reassurance about how simple flying was going to be rather than morbid jokes and sarcastic commentary.

"Honestly Draco, could you be any less comforting?"

"Of course." Draco shot back breezily, practically strutting past Harry and Ron and giving both nervous boys claps to the shoulder. "I could describe to you in vivid detail how cousin Marv flew too recklessly and got himself chopped up by one of those muggle whirlygigs."

"You've got a cousin Marv?" Harry smirked.

Shrugging one shoulder, Neville Longbottom picked out one of the dozens of raggedy broomsticks to stand beside. "Everyone's got a cousin Marv."

"It's coz we're all related you see." Ron deadpanned, letting some of the tension seep out of the lines of his mouth and eying his broom with a hint of disgust. "Comes with the inbreeding."

Draco turned up his nose snootily. "I wouldn't have thought you even knew words that large, Weasley. And in any case, the only inbred one around here is you – what with the freckles and red hair all over the place."

"That's the pot calling the kettle black."

A sharp whistle cut off any further conversation between the first years, leaving Hermione to quickly file what she'd just heard in the back of her mind. Living in the Wizarding World meant she needed to learn all about it, and cultural osmosis seemed to be the best way to do that. Had Neville been joking about being so closely related that they shared a cousin named Marv? Or was 'cousin Marv' supposed to be some allegoral cultural icon that warned against the dangers of reckless flying?

Madame Hooch whistled once more, drawing all eyes to her silver-haired form. Despite being nearly a century old, the flying instructor was still hale and hearty, and there was no sign of frailty in her sharp amber gaze. "Good afternoon class."

"Good afternoon Madame Hooch." The gaggle of first years murmured back, more than one rolling their eyes at the expectation of formality.

Draco let the flying lesson drift away from him. He'd spent years on the Quidditch Pitch and he was more than aware of how to fly. Paying attention would be a waste of time and effort, so the blond just numbly mimicked what the rest of the students were doing and kept a careful watch on everyone around him.

In the end, he'd decided that it would be better to get Potter a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. House pride demanded that Draco do whatever was necessary for Slytherin to win, but he wasn't a little boy anymore, no matter what he looked like. So he was willing to swallow back the irritation that came with getting Potter the Seeker position.

Giving the rest of the class a last nonchalant look over, Draco waited until Hooch's back was turned before stealthy letting his wand drop out of his sleeve and into his hand. He'd taken the last spot in line, so his wand was hidden from view by his body and would only by visible to anyone that was watching from the Forbidden Forest – which was pretty damn unlikely.

A flick of his wand had enormous buck teeth sprouting from Granger's mouth, shocking Longbottom and making Weasley bellow with concern. No one noticed Draco slip his wand back up his sleeve, and after screwing on an appropriate expression of worry he hurried over to stand by the mudblood.

"Hush now!" Hooch instructed the bawling girl, grabbing hold of Hermione's chin and titling the first year's face up so that she could examine the curse. Clicking her tongue in displeasure, the silver haired woman shook her head. "I'll be taking this one to the Hospital Wing."

Then she turned her blazing yellow glare on the rest of the students, making more than one quail in fear. "When I find out who did this I'll have you out of this school before you can say Quidditch. Touch nothing, and if I hear that any of you get it into your heads to take a bit of a fly you'll be spending the next month in detention with Filch."

Hooch thinned her lips at the group of aghast first years before turning on the spot and leading a weepy Hermione back up to the castle.

A heavy silence hung in the air, during which Ron's face grew steadily redder until the freckled boy snapped. "Alright then! Which one of you lot did it?"

Harry looked no less irritated.

"Come on and fess up! We won't hurt you… much." Ron growled, blue eyes burning as he suspiciously looked Seamus Finnegan over before settling an accusing stare on Theo. "It was _you_ wasn't it, Nott?"

In later years Theo Nott had turned into a very clever and very dangerous Death Eater; carrying on the insurgency against the Ministry even after his Master had been killed by Draco. But there was none of that lethality in him now, and to Draco's eyes Nott just looked like a rather weedy little first year.

Perhaps it was a bit of compassionate pity that moved him, though Draco would always insist that he was just _making allies_ when he stepped in front of Nott and got in Weasley's way. "It wasn't him. I was watching Theo and he had nothing to do with Granger's little episode."

"Was it _you_ then, Malfoy?"

"Ron." Harry snapped out in a warning tone, stepping up to grab the back of the ginger's robes and yank him back. Ron was definitely a friend, and Draco was sort-of one. The Boy-Who-Lived didn't want to see them fight each other, especially since he didn't think Draco would be that mean.

"It was probably those idiot brothers of yours, Weasley." Draco shot back, folding his arms over his chest and meeting Ron's eyes unflinchingly. There was a certain iciness in those silver eyes that made Ron clench his jaw and step back. "Wasn't Granger complaining that her pumpkin juice tasted strange today?"

Given a new target for his anger, Ron subsided with a few grumbles and a silent promise to owl his mother.

As the threat of confrontation drained away, Draco briefly met Blaise's wary stare and deliberately let his expression shift from defensive anger to lackadaisical boredom. "Well now that that's over." He declared pompously, turning back to scoop his assigned broom up from the grass. "I think I'll head up for a ride."

Straddling the weathered broomstick, Draco gave Potter a cheeky wink before rocketing up into the air. Freedom burst in the blond's veins, and for a few precious minutes he made lazy loops over the pitch while ignoring the urgent warnings of his peers. He'd missed the feeling of being able to temporary leave his worries behind.

In the air there was nothing but the crisp wind on his face and the warm sun beating down on Draco's skin.

Draco swooped back along to the crowd of first years, unable to resist the urge to show off a Sloth Grip Roll. "Come on up Harry." He cajoled, hanging upside down and letting the silver-gold strands of his hair dangle in the breeze.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." Harry admitted, biting his lip and staring anxiously up at the castle. "Maybe you should get down before one of the professors sees you, Draco."

Maybe a less observant Slytherin would have missed it, but it was clear as crystal to Draco that despite his protests Harry actually _wanted_ to try flying. Quidditch was in the auburn haired boy's blood, and the trembling of Harry's hands wasn't anxiety but rather anticipation.

"Scared, Potter?"

"No." A stubborn glint lit in Harry's emerald orbs, and the Boy-Who-Lived jut his chin forward defiantly. He was smart enough to know he was being baited, and refused to rise to the taunt.

Draco shrugged and flew down in a slow curve, coming low enough that his hanging feet could brush the grass of the pitch. There was one last card to play, and the blond knew it wasn't going to fail.

With an arrogant smirk, Draco floated up right next to Harry and plucked the glasses from the other boy's face. "You'll never catch me, Potter!" he called out as he fled back into the air, wanting to melt into goo at having said something so childish.

Merlin's saggy left nut, Potter _owed_ him for this.

"Give them here, Malfoy!" Harry shouted, squinting his eyes as he launched after the blurry impression of black robes and blond hair that he could just barely make out. Professor Snape would have declared that flying essentially blind was a stupidly Gryffindor thing to do, but no one ever honestly accused Harry of being a coward.

"Don't get your knickers in a bunch Potter." Draco drawled, easily handing the pair of spectacles back once he'd managed to bait Potter to fly high enough. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?

Still a touch irate at having been so easily goaded into breaking the rules, Harry mumbled out a heated agreement before finally giving in to the urges that had plagued him since Madam Hooch had let them briefly float under careful supervision.

Tightening his knees around the knobby surface of the broomstick shaft, Harry leaned forward and took off like a shoot. Faster and faster the redhead moved, banking tight turns and spectacular flips with all the grace of a true natural.

Draco was just a little jealous. Oh, he was a _good_ Seeker. He'd never made a fool of himself after the first Quidditch match against Gryffindor, and no one in Slytherin ever suggested he was unworthy of his spot on the team despite essentially bribing his way onto it. Draco's skill and experience was such that when he'd quit the team in sixth year he'd utterly destroyed any chance Slytherin had to win the Quidditch Cup. There had been no one in Slytherin better than him by sixth year.

But Draco had never had Harry's natural talent. Flying wasn't burnt into his bones the same way it was burnt into Harry's.

Gritting his jaw as Potter pulled out another flashy stunt, Draco dug about in his breast pocket until he pulled out a peach sized purple crystal. He'd found the bauble while searching the Room of Hidden Things, and hung onto it while waiting for their first flying lesson.

Demonstrating a Seeker's skill required something small and shiny after all.

Draco held the violet ball of glass up to the sunlight, watching as purple glittered along its surface. "Catch Potter!" he called, throwing the heavy thing right at Harry's face.

Startled out of his free flying, Harry lurched to the side and snatched the gem right out of the air as it nearly arced right past him. "What's this then, Malfoy?" he questioned, examined the smooth surface of the glass orb with a critical glance.

"Fancy a bit of a game?"

"What? Oh." Harry quickly caught on, grinning as he nudged his broom into a swift curve and tossed the bauble back to the blond. Back and forth the crystal went, being launched further and further afield, forcing the two boys to make ever more daring catches.

By the time Draco had herded Harry towards the South Tower, they were both panting a little and soaked in sweat. Draco's young body hadn't had such a workout in a long time, and Harry's had never been conditioned for sustained flying.

Pushing his sweaty bangs out of his eyes with one hand, Draco clutched at the violet orb with the other. A wide grin was pulling at Harry's mouth, and with a sense of stupefied horror Draco realized that a matching smirk was twisting his lips.

He was having fun with _Potter_.

Merlin have mercy.

Draco shook off the instinctive disgust he felt at rubbing elbows with the biggest blood-traitor to ever be a blood-traitor, instead focusing on searching out the grimy window he knew marked McGonagall's transfiguration classroom. "Try and catch this one, Potter."

Whipping his hand forward, Draco aimed it right at the window. Either Potter would swoop in and catch the damn thing - putting on a show for the wrinkled old bint that was probably grading papers in her classroom - or they'd break the window and both be in a puddle of shite.

Harry showed no hesitation, relentlessly pushing his aged broom to the limit as he tried to catch the Draco's little ornament. Despite the rapidly approaching stone walls of the tower, the Boy-Who-Lived showed no signs of stopping.

Draco was just beginning to worry that he'd have to spend detentions scraping Potter's splattered body off the stones when Harry unlocked his legs from the broom and slammed his heels against the tower. He'd beaten the purple crystal to the mark, and with a sense of lordly laziness he grabbed it before it could smash through the window.

Then Harry landed back on his broom, satisfied with himself and never once noticing the utterly shocked Transfiguration Professor standing in the window watching him.

* * *

A week later, Draco was scrubbing away at Snape's cauldrons with a building sense of frustration. He hadn't expected any different, because of course the evil little Malfoy spawn would get weeks of detention while Saint Potter got to join the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, but the unfairness of it galled.

Briefly, the blond fantasized about what it would be like if Snape was just as soft as McGonagall and decided to put him on the Slytherin team. Five years of quidditch experience over Potter would have been enough to give Draco the edge. Finally snatching the snitch away from the bespectacled git would have satisfied one of his longest running childhood dreams.

Dragging the scum slathered brush over the bottom of the cast iron cauldron one last time, Draco rinsed the dingy little thing and turned his attention to more important matters. His forays into the Room of Hidden Things hadn't turned up the Dark Lord's horcrux yet, his year mates were starting to look at him oddly, and he was still feeling a little dirty over mailing the Mudblood a birthday present earlier in the day.

It was the last of those three things that nettled Draco the most. He had a lot of time to deal with the horcrux issue, and he could always wave away being nicer as making alliances in Slytherin. But buying a gift was something Draco had only ever bothered to do for his actual friends, and the thought of treating Granger that way was discomforting.

All the more so because he'd actually shagged Granger more than a few times in the future he'd left behind. Firewhiskey and the need to feel alive could have excused it if it had only happened once in a blue moon, but Draco had ended up in some sort of hate filled enemies-with-benefits arrangement with Granger.

Stealing a glance at Snape, Draco considered the greasy potions professor as the man silently scribbled red ink over some student's assignment. The spy had never been good with feelings, but he had been a mentor to Draco in their dark days of shared torment under Voldemort, and part of the blond wanted to ask the man's advice.

Alas, Draco couldn't really think up an ideal lie. The truth would just make him look like a nutter, and confessing to sexual relations with someone he didn't even like at eleven would work Snape up into a lather over questions of propriety and licentiousness.

Determined to stew in his own thoughts behind his instinctive occlumency, Draco took up the next slime splattered cauldron and began to scrub away.

Maybe he was just reading too much into the whole gift issue. Draco had never harboured any feelings towards Granger, and he doubted he ever would. But there was _something_ there.

Sex was something that the Wizarding World almost exclusively reserved for marriage, with binding oaths of fidelity and chastity charms locking up the populace's randy urges better than any muggle religion could. The differences in sexual morality was just one of the many points of contention between the muggleborns and purebloods.

So maybe Granger hadn't read anything into the sex when they'd fucked. She'd certainly been no virgin by the time Draco had got into her knickers. But for Draco to unbend and yield up his own virginity to a mudblood – there had to be something between them beside hate and bile. Something outside of prejudice.

If there hadn't been, he wouldn't have fucked Granger in the first place, and he certainly wouldn't have actually put thought into her birthday gift. In fact, he wouldn't have even remembered her birthday. He wouldn't have felt pleased to see her younger self's face light up at the expensive silver peacock feather quills he'd given her.

If Draco hadn't at least on some level liked the bint, he wouldn't catch himself sometimes waiting for an acidic comment made by a half-mad bitter witch. He wouldn't tear his hair out in frustration and wish he had someone that he could trust and who had a brain that he could bounce ideas off. And he certainly wouldn't feel just a little stung by the fact that she wasn't lurking about with her almost affectionate resentment.

Morgana's saggy tits.

Had Draco Malfoy actually become _friends_ with a mudblood?

They might have had only each other to rely on in a cold world to complete very illegal research, but that was no excuse. His ancestors were likely rolling over in their graves. What was next? Kissing muggles and cuddling up to the Weaselette?

* * *

"I still don't know why we're doing this, you great sodding git."

"Lighten up Weasel King. Where's that Gryffindor courage of yours?"

"That's enough out of the two of you." Harry grumbled, resisting the urge to turn around and slap the other two boys silly. Sometimes Draco and Ron were perfectly civil towards each other, but sometimes they just descended into insults. It was driving him batty. "Especially you, _Draco_ , since this whole thing was your idea in the first place."

Once October hit, Draco had turned into a nutter. It was the only way Harry could really describe the blond. His Slytherin friend had started asking strange questions about if Harry, Ron and Hermione were 'up to something'. Every denial had just made Draco look oddly dissatisfied, until some lightbulb had gone off in his head and given Draco the idea that it would be a grand old time to wander into the forbidden corridor on the third floor.

Ron and Harry lasted through three days of offhand questions about what Dumbledore could possibly be hiding and snide remarks about the lack of Gryffindor nerve before they'd caved in. Part of it was that Harry just wanted him to shut up about it, and the rest of Harry was genuinely curious.

"Well let's get a move on." Ron suggested after a few silent seconds, patting the front of his robes and locating his second-hand wand to reassure himself. The ginger spared a nasty look over his shoulder for Draco, to which the blond only sneered back, and then set off down the dusty corridor with swift sure steps. "It's almost curfew."

Draco was the one who suggested that they quickly take a run through the corridor just before they had to be back in their common rooms for the night. Going earlier in the day ran the risk of being spotted by other students, and going after curfew meant that the teachers would be actively on patrol. Getting caught after curfew could get them more than a gentle scolding, and none of the boys were happy at the idea of losing house points.

"What do you reckon is hidden around here anyway?" Harry mumbled, hurrying after Ron and eyeing the suits of armor periodically spaced along the corridor with suspicious green orbs. "Stay away unless you want to die a painful death? Was he serious or was he just having us on?"

"Could be either, honestly." Draco smirked, silver eyes glittering in the dark. "Dumbledore's always been a nutter."

"Oh shut up." Ron shot back, striding through the clouds of dust with a slightly peeved look. " _You're_ a nutter. Don't think I hadn't cottoned on that you've been trying to get us down here for some reason."

The drawl in Draco's voice was thick and mocking, his words making the two Gryffindors flush with embarrassment. "Alright, you've caught me Weasley. You're absolutely right. I've been trying to get you two lads down here for a good snog. Seemed like the perfect place for a romantic rendezvous really."

"Ruddy poofter."

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Don't talk about mother, Potter." Draco huffed, poking his head around the corner and scanning for patrolling professors or prefects.

Luring Weasley and Potter down to find Hagrid's Cerberus hadn't been his first choice, since Draco hardly had any desire to go romping around in dangerous places. But Potter and his sidekicks needed a good kick in the pants to get their investigation of Quirrell started. Which meant they needed to run into the oaf's so-called 'pet', and then connect it to the package stolen from Gringotts.

Being the puppet master trying to get ahead of the Dark Lord before the war began was exhausting, and Draco had only been doing it for a month and a half. It made him wand to whinge on again about how Granger had fucked him over by dying. At least he had time to get his feet under him, since according to Granger Potter's first year had been an unmitigated success with very little actual danger.

The real difficulty would only begin after the school year was over, when Draco would try and get ahead of his father on the issue of the Dark Lord's diary.

"Stop here." Draco sighed as he finally located the beaten wooden door that Granger had told him about when they'd been discussing her little adventures with Potter. None of the other doors had been latched, and with a cursory tug the blond quickly confirmed that it was locked with a curse.

Trying his best to pitch his voice so that he came across as unconcerned and noncoherently curious, Draco shrugged a shoulder and turned to glance at Harry. "What do you think is behind here?"

Emerald green eyes glittered with suspicion, making Draco wince internally. He needed to work on his acting if _Saint Potter_ was sussing him out so early in the game. "Nevermind. I already know what it is. I just thought that you two wouldn't come look if you knew."

"Knew _what_?" Weasley growled irately, shoving past Draco to prod at the locked hatch. The stuttering display of false anxiety seemed to settle the matter, and rather than kick up a fuss Ron dropped it without flying off the handle and starting a screaming match.

It was actually a little bizarre, since as far as Draco had seen in his first life Ron Weasley was always three seconds away from exploding in a fit of ginger anger. Was it another difference that could be chalked up to mysterious changes in the timeline? Or had Weasley always been more patient with those he was somewhat friendly before.

Shaking away his ponderings, Draco smirked weakly at the still smoldering Potter and tapped at the latch. " _Alohomora_. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Rusty hinges in need of a good oiling squeaked loudly in the quiet corridor, turning out to reveal a trio of huge furry fanged faces drooling in sleep.

A silent beat passed.

"Bugger." Murmured Harry.


	5. The Malfoy Conspiracies

Every time Harry passed Draco in the hall, he sent the blond boy a dirty look. After five times Hermione started giving him weird looks, and by the tenth time Ron had also clued in.

"What crawled up your arse and died, mate?"

"Ron!" Hermione shrilled quietly, brown eyes narrowing at the freckled ginger's rudeness before she decided to give Harry her full attention.

The three Gryffindors were seated in History of Magic, letting Professor Binns' dusty voice roll on while they chatted quietly in the back. Hermione had been reluctant at first, but after much nagging by her two friends she'd caved and accepted the point that she could learn everything about the subject from independent reading.

Doodling a sloppy little star on his parchment, Harry drew his eyebrows together in thought before sighing. "I'm just a bit mad with Draco, I guess."

"Yeah we figured that one out." Ron muttered, watching the dark ink blot over Harry's spare bit of parchment. "What we want to know is why."

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, idly poking at his scribbles and observing the way the drying ink grew stickier as the seconds passed. "I thought we were friends. So why did he try and lead us around by the nose like that? Shouldn't he have just trusted us to believe him and come along?"

"Probably." Hermione agreed easily, wrinkling her nose at the reference to the boys' rule breaking _adventure_. She'd already said her piece about the little undertaking, and there was no point in beating a dead horse. Harry and Ron would either straighten up and take school seriously or they'd end up in big trouble. "But there isn't much that can be done about it now, is there?"

The flicker in Ron's bright blue orbs was heavy as he steadfastly met Hermione's gaze. Then he gave a very deliberate shrug and turned his attention back to Harry. For an instant, the sight of Ron almost daunted Hermione. Most of the time he was a typical eleven year old boy making dirty jokes and talking about the hobbies he enjoyed, but there were times he seemed full of an odd kind of maturity.

"Just drop it this time, Harry." Ron suggested, cracking the knuckles of one hand and sparing a glance for Binns' droning ghostly form. "He's a Slytherin and a Malfoy. He might be a half-decent sort, but telling the truth probably isn't his first choice."

In his heart, Ron wasn't exactly leaping for joy at the thought of defending a Malfoy. He'd grown up hearing stories about how awful the Malfoy family in general had always been and how terrible its current Lord was. The feud between the muggle-loving Arthur Weasley and the muggle-hating Lucius Malfoy was practically an unwritten law of the universe.

But even though Ron didn't want to give Draco a chance simply because of the blond's name, he knew he _should_. Draco had been a sneaky little Slytherin when he tried to trick Ron and Harry, but that didn't mean he was _evil_. And Molly Weasley had taught her children to always try and do the right thing.

"Just probably doin' what his parents taught him to do. It's no big deal anyway."

The shaggy auburn strands of Harry's mane fell into his emerald eyes as he tilted his head and re-examined Ron in light of the ginger's new defence of Draco. While Ron had never outright rejected the other boy, there had still been a certain distant wariness between them. So if Ron thought he ought to cut Draco some slack over the little betrayal, Harry supposed maybe he ought to let it go.

"Whatever." Harry decided, picking at the seam of his robe sleeves. "Anyway, did you see what it was sleeping on?"

The sudden change in topic and the eager note in Harry's voice was enough to make Ron blink in surprise. "Well I wasn't exactly looking at its _feet_ , you know?"

Waving off Ron's confusion with a huff, Harry leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially. Caught up in the bespectacled boy's eagerness, Ron and Hermione mirrored his action. "It was sleeping on a trap door. _Think_. Why would Dumbledore keep something like that in a school?"

"It's guarding something." Hermione finished for her friend, smiling faintly when Harry practically beamed in triumph. Part of the bushy haired girl wanted to tell the boys to just drop it before they all got in trouble, but her curiosity won over her respect for the rules. "Something like that package Hagrid took from Gringotts?"

"Shhh!" Ron cut in over their whispers, bending forward and scribbling on his parchment like a man possessed. His head cut off the eye contact between Harry and Hermione, but before either of the first years could complain about it the ginger continued. "Don't freak out, but Neville's staring at us."

The round-faced blond was inspecting Harry and his friends with a little too much focus for the look to be accidental. He didn't seem suspicious of them, but rather merely curious. Which was fair, since while History of Magic wasn't very interesting whatever the trio were discussing was much more intense.

Neville was seated two rows over though, and wasn't close enough for conversation.

"Do you think he's going to try and stick his nose in?" Harry wondered after Neville finally shrugged and turned back to watch Binns with slightly glazed eyes.

"Maybe."

"Nah." Ron denied before Hermione could even work herself up into a lather with speculation. "Neville's a decent bloke. He'll probably just ask what's goin' on and leave it at that. We'll just tell him we were talking about Quidditch. If we let it spill that Harry made the team, I reckon he'd even believe that you'd be interested, 'Mione."

Hermione digested that in silence, deliberately choosing not to take offence at the implication she wouldn't talk to her friends if they just wanted to natter on about quidditch. Ron was right. Hermione had better things to think and talk about than a bunch of boys chasing balls around on broomsticks. But Ron being right didn't mean she'd let the comment go unchallenged.

Friends did tease each other.

"Neville _would_ believe that. Anyone would expect me to be worried that Harry is going to get his head knocked off by a bludger, so deflecting Neville's curiosity like that – well I'd have to say it's almost positively Slytherin."

The expression of utter horror that crossed Ron's face was enough to make the other two Gryffindors snicker.

* * *

Draco pulled his silver and green Slytherin tie tight around his neck, fitting it so closely he briefly envisioned that it was coarse rope and a noose under his fingers rather than silk. His white-blond hair had been combed to the side a few hours ago but had grown shaggy since, and he'd given up using sculpting gel a few weeks into the term.

All in all, he'd started looking a little less primly put together and was faintly reminded of his horrible sixth year when there'd been no time to waste on prettying himself up. His mother would have a conniption when she caught sight of him., but Draco couldn't bring himself to give a damn. He had too much riding on his shoulders and the nightmares of living under Voldemort had returned.

By the time the war actually came again he'd likely have gone utterly mad.

Sighing at his reflection in the mirror, Draco turned away and left the bathroom. "Let's go. Vince. Greg."

The two beefy boys rolled over their beds, robes rumpled from laying about for a few hours before dinner. Neither Crabbe nor Goyle really gave much of a damn about how they looked, so Draco only sighed and silently cast a wrinkle removing charm.

Tuning out the rough thanks that his minions rumbled out, Draco twisted and cocked a slim blond eyebrow at Blaise Zabini. The silent summon was enough for the half-Italian wizard to roll his blue eyes and make a disgruntled face.

"Let's head out then, Malfoy." Blaise hummed, preventing Draco from verbally ordering him about. The Combing his fingers through the wavy hair he'd inherited from his mother, he quickly moved to lead the pack of Slytherins up to the Halloween feast.

"Where's Theo?"

Breezily belting out a "Who knows?". Blaise pushed open the door to the common room and sauntered out into the corridor. "Probably holed up in the library with a book."

Draco just made a noise of comprehension before bringing up the upcoming quidditch season, and swallowed back the relief he felt when Blaise accepted the change in topic. He'd been so caught up with rearing Potter's group of blood traitors that he'd let his own friendships wither. Blaise had been his only true friend for most of his life, and no doubt the other boy felt slighted when Draco practically blew him off to go hang out with Potter of all people.

Potter, Weasley, and Granger might be less annoying than he'd always thought in his first life, but they'd never be Blaise. The so-called Golden Trio would never know how it felt to basically inherit darkness.

Blaise's father might have been a rich Italian pureblood with no reputation for ill deeds, but everyone suspected Arietta Rosier had murdered all her husbands and expected Blaise to be just the same. Nevermind that marriage vows made murder extremely difficult and that all of Arietta's husbands had been geriatric with one foot in the grave already, or that Blaise's arrogant vanity was little more than a defence against a world that expected him to be a homicidal philanderer.

The Zabini heir had been boxed in by the circumstances of his birth, just like Draco had been boxed in by his. Blaise had become Draco's only true friend for many years, and he deserved a little more kindness from the blond. Which was why when they entered the Great Hall for dinner Draco spared only a nod for Potter's gang and kept the conversation with Blaise moving.

"Look, I still think that the team could do better than Derrick and Bole. Those two can't even find their own arses with both hands, much less the bludgers." Blaise drawled as they took seats at the end of the Slytherin dining table. His insult was tempered by the fact that he did a quick look about to make sure no members of the quidditch team were listening in to his commentary.

Wetting his lips with a sip of pumpkin juice, Draco tuned out the piggish sounds of Crabbe and Goyle stuffing their faces with all the ease of long practice. "I'd agree, but I doubt there are better options. Flint might be a troll, but he wants to win. He wouldn't pass up better Beaters just because he's feeling sentimental about those two."

"You may be giving him too much credit there."

Draco thought back to his second year when Flint had instantly booted his longtime friend Higgs off the team in exchange for an untrained Seeker and the promise of top of the line brooms. "No, I don't think I am."

Blaise looked briefly confused by the blond's surety, but shrugged it off and moved the conversation to their latest potions assignment.

Thankful for his years of experience in the subject, Draco was able to lazily provide Blaise with all the answers while his eyes kept wandering back towards the doors. He could barely eat because of the ball of tension in his stomach, and at any moment Quirrell was supposed to come barreling in screaming about a troll.

Proximity to the door was exactly why Draco had subtly directly their group to sit at the end of the dining table. He needed to be out quickly and make sure Potter didn't get into any stupid heroics. Since Granger wasn't sobbing in the bathroom, Draco doubted the Boy-Who-Lived would go troll hunting, but one could never be too careful.

"Draco?"

"Yes?"

Whatever else Blaise was going to say was cut off by a thunderous boom, the doors to the Great Hall flying open to admit Quirrell's scurrying form.

"Troll!" The Defense Against The Dark Arts professor squealed, purple robes fluttering as he dashed between the tables towards the staff table. "Troll in the dungeons!"

Everyone sat in shocked silence as Quirrell stumbled to a stop. "Thought you ought to know." Then he tumbled to the flagstones in a faint.

Then the screams started.

* * *

"Are you barking?" Ron demanded as he and his friends shoved through the crowd. "Look, I'm just as Gryffindor as you but that doesn't mean I want to run off and fight dark wizards right now."

Harry just rolled his eyes and pushed harder, bowling between a pair of third years with Ron and Hermione on his heels. "Look, it makes sense alright? How else would a troll show up here unless someone _let_ it in? And if they let it in, they'd have to be doing it as a distraction."

"I think Ron's problem has less to do with your thought process and more to do with your recklessness." Hermione commented primly, having to raise her voice to be heard over the frantic chattering of the crowd. "Just how do you think you're going to beat a criminal that the cerberus can't? Or have you been hiding some special power from us, Harry?"

"Potter!" Draco barreled through the crowd, panting slightly with a hint of color staining his pale cheekbones. "There you are!"

"Well hello to you too, Malfoy." Accepting the addition to their argument with aplomb, Harry gave Ron and Hermione a pleading glance. "I'm not saying we have to go and try to duel whoever is trying to get by that dog. We could just…. keep him away… somehow."

Draco made a face of utter revulsion. "Merlin, Potter. Did the Killing Curse give you brain damage when it bounced off your thick head?" It wasn't surprising that the blond managed to connect the dots without context and know exactly what they were debating.

Whatever caustic reply Harry intended to shoot back was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a tall, redhaired fifth year. "Ron! There you are!" Percy Weasley barked, anger and relief mingling in his voice. The freckles that spanned the bridge of Percy's nose were stark against the anxious whiteness of his face.

"Whatever." Percy decided, nodding once to himself. "Just stay close to me and _don't_ wander off." Pressing on by the tight knot of first years, Percy cast a glance at Draco. "You come too, Malfoy. I'll let the portraits know to get word to your Head of House."

Any foolhardy plans to go troll hunting or dark wizard catching were instantly scuppered by the hawklike blue gaze of the Weasley prefect. Shouting over the din and managing to get the lower years into a line, Percy frogmarched them right up Gryffindor Tower to the portrait of the Fat Lady with all the focus of a drill sergeant.

"Blue bottle." Percy told the portrait, one hand on his youngest brother's shoulder and clutching so tightly it was a wonder his nails didn't pierce through Ron's second-hand robes.

Obligingly the Fat Lady swung forward to reveal the passage into the Gryffindor Common Room, and the crowd of students poured in like a stampede of wildebeasts. Percy's shouts of "No pushing! No pushing!" went unheeded.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Draco decided as he was greeted by the most lurid display of gold and red he'd ever seen. The couches were red and embossed with gold. The wallpaper was gold and embossed in red. Even the fire that crackled in the hearth seemed unnaturally red.

In his first life, Draco had never bothered with the common rooms of the other Houses. He knew where all of the entrances were, but the rare times he'd had to hunt down a student he'd simply knocked on the entrance and told one of the students living there to fetch whomever he sought. The Malfoy boy had also never been possessed by the urge to try to break in exploring either.

Slytherin was the best in Draco's opinion, and bothering with the rest had simply been beneath him. But now that he'd actually seen the inside of Gryffindor's common room – as disgustingly vulgar as it was – he was half tempted to make a quest of it and break in to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw for good measure. It was a proper Hogwarts adventure that appealed to the nearly dead boy in him.

"Does it not got enough snakes and skulls for you?" Ron muttered belligerently, letting Hermione take him and Draco by the elbow and lead them over to one of the windows that looked out over the ground. Harry trailed after them looking vaguely mutinous.

"Suppose not, Weasley." Draco rejoined, silver eyes considering Harry with a sharp glitter. He couldn't claim to be an authority on the first Potter, but when he was honest he could admit that it seemed like Potter had stumbled into his various escapades by accident. The realization that Harry's relentless curiosity was an enormous factor left him feeling rather vindicated.

Still, he couldn't have Potter rushing off to his death. The first time around it had taken Harry most of the year to work through the mystery and face the Dark Lord. Letting them collide earlier than that might not have the best results.

"So what do you say to a little you show me yours and I'll show you mine?" Draco proposed with a smarmy smirk, waving one hand at the crowded common room. "Now that I've seen it, it's only fair that you get to see where the better sort spend their nights."

"Draco!"

"You mean the Hufflepuffs?"

"Nah, he's obviously talkin' about the Ravenclaws mate."

Ignoring the scandalized way that Hermione breathed his name, Draco inwardly gloated in having temporarily redirected the focus of Potter's questing. Breaking into other common rooms might be against the rules, but rules were made to be broken, and it wasn't like Dumbledore would expel Saint Potter anyway. "You two are a comedy act. Did you know that?" The Slytherin sniffed, concealing his inner thoughts.

* * *

"Look, I'm telling you it's Snape!"

Rubbing a hand across his forehead, Draco tried to force back the throbbing headache building between his ears with sheer willpower. He'd known that the Gryffindor trio could be relentless, but he thought they could clue in and leave him for a few hours in the library to enjoy some quiet rather than bombarding him with their conspiracy theories.

The latest being that Snape was trying to steal something, and that he'd been bitten by the cerberus up on the third floor. Snape had also jinxed Harry's broom during the quidditch match they'd had earlier in the day, because the greasy professor was just _that_ evil.

Although maybe Draco was being just a little uncharitable. He knew all about the various suspicions Harry had in his first year from Granger. If he hadn't heard them all before in preparation for his trip to the past, he might have been remotely interested.

As it was, Draco was just irritated. Harry and Hermione were like clingy little leeches and had decided they were the best of friends just because he sent Granger a gift and helped them with their classwork without even being asked. Only Weasley was a little standoffish, and soon pigs would be flying because Draco found himself half-heartedly admiring the ginger's determined caution.

A Malfoy finding something redeeming in a Weasley.

Fuck. Slap some dung in his hair and call him a Hufflepuff.

"Maybe it is." Draco agreed mildly, no longer interested in fighting over it. The alchemical text in his hands was calling, and the first time around he'd barely had the time to research the subject once he found it interesting. "Have you talked to Hagrid yet?"

"I… what?" Tilting his head at the sudden change in topic, Harry glared at the book that his blond friend seemed so absorbed in. He hadn't thought Draco was like Hermione, but apparently, they were the same in that way. Put a good book in their hands and they couldn't be torn away.

Turning the page with a crinkle that practically echoed in the hushed air of the library, Draco flickered his silver gaze up to Harry's emerald before looking back down at the yellowed pages. "Well whoever is trying to steal from Dumbledore – Snape or not – don't you think Hagrid would know about it? He did pick up whatever it was from Gringotts, _and_ he's the Gameskeeper. If he doesn't know about that giant drooling thing I'll eat my own socks."

Harry mulled that over for a minute before grinning wildly. "Fair enough, now let's go."

At that, Draco finally stilled and gave the nagging Gryffindor his full attention. He wasn't stupid, and Draco knew exactly what Harry was asking. The auburn haired Boy-Who-Lived wanted Draco to come along and sit in Hagrid's stinking hovel while they pumped the half-breed for information. "Shouldn't you be finding your sidekicks and taking them along?" he pointed out dryly.

Snorting at the designation of Ron and Hermione as his sidekicks, Harry huffed and muttered to himself below his breath before fixing a burning green stare on the reluctant Malfoy. "We'll go find them first obviously. So put the book away for now and let's _go_ already."

Briefly, Draco contemplated beating Potter around the head with the copy of _Alchemical Achievements of the 18_ _th_ _Century_ that he was reading. Just for a split second, he indulged in the fantasy of smacking the little needling bugger and earning himself some peace and quiet.

Alas, Draco couldn't afford to turn down a direct face-to-face invitation to take part in the latest Harry Potter shenanigan. It was one thing to be scarce and difficult to find, but turning down the boy directly might hurt their tenuous friendship.

Friends with Potter.

The thought made Draco want to gag.

Steeling himself in the knowledge of his own Slytherin and pureblood superiority, Draco shoved the historical textbook in his back and nodded imperiously at Potter. So what if it might make people associate him with a blood traitor? So what if he had to take tea with a filthy half-giant oaf? So what if Draco already knew all of the secrets they could squeeze out of Hagrid and the entire venture was a waste of time?

Part of Draco was honestly and earnestly _flattered_. In Draco's actual first year, Potter had turned down his offer of friendship. And the denial stung. It wasn't only because he – a Malfoy! – had been rejected in favour of one of the dirt grubbing Weasleys. Draco had been hurt by Harry Potter's rejection, because when he'd held out his hand he'd been making an earnest effort to be liked. Draco had assumed that Harry Potter could be a true friend, like Blaise had become, and reached out in an effort that was entirely un-Slytherin-like.

Draco had always claimed that he was just looking to build alliances with the famous Harry Potter, but in that moment on the train Draco had been just another boy trying to find someone to connect with. The rejection had hurt more than anything else he'd ever experience up until that point in his life, because for a few minutes Draco had made himself honest and vulnerable.

So even though he was more than a decade older, and even though he'd crossed timelines, and even though the redhaired Harry Potter wasn't the same person as the dark-haired Harry Potter, Draco felt a little thrill. He'd only ever hated Potter so ardently in the first place because he'd been rejected, and when this strange little Potter sought him out it soothed that old wound in his pride.

"Fine, _Harry_. We'll find Granger and Weasley and then go down to Hagrid's hut."

The toothy smile Harry gave Draco was enough to make his chest purr with satisfaction.

* * *

Lucius pressed a dry kiss to his wife's knuckles before gently lowering her hand. He took great care in settling her hand amidst the downy softness of their bed's sheets. Narcissa was lingering in the fugue state between sleeping and waking he knew, and Lucius had no desire to disturb her.

There would be enough confrontation that night without upsetting Narcissa.

"Lucius?"

Pausing at his wife's sleepy call, the rich pureblood briefly considering blowing off his meeting with Yaxley and Nott. It still struck Lucius from time to time how odd the depth of his affection for Narcissa was. He had never expected love in a marriage that was essentially arranged, but in the end he'd come to care ardently.

But Lucius hadn't become so powerful and dangerous by letting sentimentality outweigh his plans. So instead of crawling under the sheets and holding his wife, Lucius murmured a low promise to return shortly and left the bedroom.

Lucius swiftly moved through the hallways of the manor, unerringly travelling directly to his study. He spent no more than a half dozen seconds in the room, only pausing long enough to check the estate's wards – paranoia paid – before travelling through the floo.

When Lucius stepped into the dimly lit foyer of Nott's Manx townhouse, he was every inch the Malfoy Lord. Not a hair was out of place, and his grey eyes betrayed no discomfort at the obviously muggle city that was visible through the windows.

"Lucius."

"Theodore."

In his younger years, Theodore Nott Senior had been a darkly striking man. His brown hair and brown eyes were common enough, but there was a harsh sort of violence burrowed beneath his skin and seeping out from his pores. Even now that his hair had gone white and his limbs thin with age, Nott still held that sinister gravity.

After having greeted the other rich wizard as a peer, Lucius turned to favour Corban with a sneering "Yaxley." The blond middle-class Death Eater cringed faintly beneath Lucius' disfavor like he'd taken a blow before he could master himself and reply with a curt "Malfoy."

Nott let that exchange pass without comment, because it was known in certain circles that Yaxley was possessed by a rather odd fear of Lucius Malfoy. None of their mutual acquaintances could identify why Corban regarded Lucius with a mixture of absolute terror and the expectation of revenge for the slightest disrespect.

Even Yaxley himself didn't know, because Lucius had taken the memory from the weaker wizard and left behind only the impression of fear. Only Lucius knew the truth, and he intended to keep it to himself.

It had been years ago – shortly after Draco was born – that Lucius had discovered Corban was making rather lascivious comments regarding Narcissa's beauty. Magic and oaths meant that nothing would ever come of it, but that hadn't stopped Lucius from working himself up into a rage at the insult. So many forgot that the name Malfoy meant not only elegance but also _violence_. Only after hours of bloody torture had Lucius been satisfied, and then he obliviated Yaxley.

Murdering Corban might have deprived Lucius of a possible pawn, but torture and memory charms ensured that he had a petrified cat's paw to do his bidding when more finesse than Crabbe or Goyle had was needed.

"Yaxley, go."

And Yaxley went.

A spark of amusement curled the corners of Nott's thin lips, and as the blue-eyed blond fled the premise he gave a raspy bark of laughter. "Come Lucius." He cajoled after his derisive chortle faded away. "Can I tempt you with a bit of brandy?"

"Elm's I presume."

"Would I dare offer anything else?"

The two wizards settled into a pair of chintz armchairs in Nott's study. Constellations wheeled by the window after Nott conjured up an illusion to spare them from having to look out at the muggle city Nott's townhouse had been built in. The property was unplottable and well hidden from muggle filth, but not even the Sacred Twenty-Eight could prevent the muggles from breeding like rabbits and building around the hidden sanctuaries of wizardkind.

Lucius took a small sip and savoured the heady burn of century and a half-old Dragon Barrel brandy. "Would I be remiss to assume that you have no knowledge of why I decided to call on you tonight?"

"I have suspicions." Nott leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle while he studied the collection of stars that made up Libra. "Yaxley is much more discreet than those other two oafs you have throwing themselves at your feet, but for those of us that _know_ your inquiries couldn't have been clearer."

A white-blond eyebrow cocked as Lucius revaluated his fellow dark wizard. He'd been very careful about what sort of information he'd been asking about, because even after his fall directly looking into the Dark Lord's past could be dangerous. Instead Lucius had focused on collecting rumors regarding the very first Death Eaters. He supposed he should be relieved that Nott seemed more amused than angry at his prodding around.

"Well then. If you know what you claim to know, then perhaps we might be best served to be on the same page." Throwing down the gauntlet, Lucius swallowed another mouthful of brandy and waited. He could be patient – especially in regards to _this_ matter.

Normally, Lucius could easily put Draco's arguments out of his mind. He loved his son, but the boy was a touch spoiled and could throw irrational tantrums if he didn't get his way. But when Draco had stood before him the day before they took Draco to Hogwarts and boldly suggested that Slytherin's own heir had less than pure blood, Lucius found the idea needling in his brain.

And the more he thought about it, the more Lucius suspected that Draco's irreverent proposal had been true. Lucius knew all about the Gaunt line and their connection to Salazar Slytherin. But if the Dark Lord was a Gaunt, why would he not simply proclaim himself as such? The Gaunts were members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight after all, and even if they'd inbred the purity of their blood was impeccable.

In proclaiming himself Lord Voldemort rather than Lord Gaunt, the Dark Lord had been making an implication that his followers willingly ignored.

After an eternity, Nott took a sloppy slurp of his drink and finally unbent with a great gusty sigh. "Yes. The Dark Lord was a half-blood."

Silver eyes drew narrow, and with his memory flashing back to a mysterious diary he'd always assumed had been taken as a trophy, Lucius knew. "Tom Riddle."

"Exactly."


End file.
